


Cold as Desert Starlight

by HeathenAlchemist



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon timeline is broken here is my version, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonverse AU, Fade to Black, Gen, I Shook A Witcher And Intergenerational Trauma Fell Out (The Witcher), Minor Character Death, Now with feelings, Now with gnomes, Oops I broke a Witcher, Oops I broke the keep, POV Original Character, Post sacking of Gorthur Gvaed, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Swearing, Thank you Gwent, Underage Drinking, Viper Witchers deserve more love, Witcher OC - Freeform, Zeren the Viper (Witcher OC)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:34:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28990791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeathenAlchemist/pseuds/HeathenAlchemist
Summary: When Gorthur Gvaed fell to the Usurper's forces, its students scattered. Like their namesakes, the Witchers of the Viper School found many hidden places to hide, heal... and return.
Comments: 107
Kudos: 46
Collections: Notes From The Path





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> When someone with too much free time and a head for trivia and story lore looks at all the blank space and blank time on a map, things like this happen. What happened to the Vipers? How could their destruction have played out differently? How could they have survived? How could the survivors have dealt with Geralt AKA the Nosiest and Most Non-Non-Interfering Witcher Alive making things complicated? 
> 
> Add these questions to my extraordinary ego and you get Zeren, a younger Witcher of the School of the Viper. He's a trip. Enjoy. 
> 
> I work three jobs and value my mental health. I make no promises of any kind about an update schedule. Significant portions of this are already written, and I have every intention of bringing it to a reasonable conclusion.

**Prologue**

_(1245, approximately, chronicles vary, a small town near Fen Aspra)_

Zeren had nearly made it back when he heard the news. Nearly made it back to the stinking, steep walled mountain keep where he’d been reborn. He’d overheard it, unintentionally, while dragging the ragged, blood stained head of a griffin back into the small town with its equally small posted payment for the beast. “- going up into the mountains, aye. A whole detachment, mages and all. Lookin’ for that damned nest-”

The voice was cut off at the same moment Zeren’s fist tightened on the filthy feathers. The gossip’s friend was shushing him hard. Well. May as well play into it. Zeren turned slowly toward the voice. For all that he despised drama it was sometimes useful. He tossed the massive head onto the table as though it was weightless, enjoying the heavy squelch it made on landing. The head of the town froze, coin purse in hand, turning in horror to the gossip. Judging by the man’s face, he clearly expected to have to watch Zeren kill the whining little bastard. The gossip, for his part, looked about to faint when he realized that the tall, well muscled, armor clad man with his head and neck swathed in black cloth, moving silently in his direction was, in fact, a Witcher. A hush fell, and the scent of fear rose in the air.

“You seem very certain.” Zeren spoke gently into the terrified silence. His voice always seemed to come as a surprise. Most people expected a growl or a snarl from lips perpetually turned into a cold smirk, not a smooth, pleasant tenor. Zeren’s voice was often the first weapon he drew. “Do you know where, or when this detachment set off in search of my….” he paused, sneering, and the smell of fear grew, “.. nest?”

The gossip, a small man with dark hair and a pinched look to his face, stammered a bit before finding his voice. “They passed south of here not two days ago,” he finally managed. “Heading due east into the Tir Tochair.”

Outwardly, Zeren only grunted and turned away, giving every appearance of dismissing the information. Inwardly, he was screaming. Too close. Too close by far and after everything in the capital the last few months… He needed to leave. Now.

Zeren took the two strides back to the head’s table, swiped the purse from his fear-frozen hand, and was out the door in the space of a few human heartbeats. Before anyone in the hall had time to move to watch, he was on his horse and riding hard into the foothills. The Bloodgate Keep was a hell carved from stone and obsession, but it was the only home he had. And it was in danger.


	2. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How did you get here, Zeren? 
> 
> CW for canon typical violence and the Inherent Tragedy of Witchers
> 
> Next chapter could be a while, three jobs and all that but this is ready and I know you want a closer look at this menace.

_(1227, approximately, a hamlet north of Sarda)_

It had been far too long since any decent rain fell. The road was hard and dusty, the fields were hard and dusty, the eyes of the farmers were hard _and also dusty. Damn this grit in the wind._ Zeren had been walking into a west wind for the better part of three days, alternately walking and riding to spare his tired mount. He was footsore, grimed with dust and sweat, hungry, and cranky about all of it. He knew there was a village within the next few hours of road. Assuming it hadn’t blown away in the wind.

Step after step, mile after mile and finally the cluster of small buildings claiming to be a village came into view. It wasn’t much, just a few large barns and half a dozen smaller houses all clustered together around a central green and many surrounding fields. They didn’t even appear to have a full time smith. Possibly sharing the workload out among them. _I really am out in the backwater. Time to move south again. Fuck._

None of Zeren’s ranting was going to fix the situation in front of him. The town was small, poor, and not likely to offer anything useful at all. If he was lucky, he’d be able to barter a night of rest from the incessant wind and dust. Worth a try at least.

Zeren left his horse- a particularly long legged and stubborn beast- at the entrance to the only apparent gathering place in the village. Zeren wasn’t entirely sure if it was an inn or just a tavern but he figured that in the long run it didn’t really matter. He was there for a drink and a couple of questions to which he likely already knew the answers.

Strangers in the village must be in and of themselves an abnormality. Zeren had no sooner taken the second step into the building when the conversation died. There was no way they had noticed his eyes yet. Strangers here were just that rare. Zeren sauntered up to the bar, all ease and apparent confidence. He fixed an easy smile to his face.

“Evening. Pour me a mug of whatever counts as beer and tell me what’s what.”

The man behind the bar started, first at being spoken to at all and again when he met Zeren’s golden eyes. He seemed off balance for a moment but almost immediately realized that Zeren was calm, relaxed, and offering to pay without quarrel.

He poured the beer.

It took him longer to speak. "No contracts here, Witcher, but work a plenty if you pass any boys looking for work outside the army."

Zeren fought down a snarl. The army was growing and it made him uncomfortable for so many reasons. Not the least of which the way it seemed to be poking around in parts of the Tir Tochair Mountains where it wasn’t fucking wanted.

"What kind of work?" Zeren offered back. He was just making conversation, not really expecting anything.

The barkeep looked at him strangely. He seemed to be struggling to parse what he was seeing. “Well, if you’re actually curious…” He paused and Zeren nodded, taking a gulp of the beer. It was paler than he liked, and not any kind of strong, but decent. “There’s a farm to the east of the green that we’re, well, trying to get put back together.” He went on to explain a situation that Zeren had come to recognize as all too common. A once profitable farm had fallen into disrepair after both sons had left for the army. The old man had apparently died, leaving his wife and daughter to attempt to run the entire property alone. Zeren had no doubt that the two women could run the place, but there was so much backlog of work that no one sane could be expected to handle it.

Zeren thought the situation over for all of two whole heartbeats.

“Which way to this farm?” The barkeep looked absolutely astonished. He clearly had no idea what to expect from the Witcher in front of him. Just as clearly, he’d never met a mercenary like Zeren. “I’m perfectly serious. Most of my contracts end up with me trying to decide if this risk of injury by monster is worth the offered price. Which way?”

Somewhat reluctantly it seemed, the barkeep told him. East, and take the left. Fair enough. Those were the kind of simple instructions that Zeren could follow even hungover.

If only the work itself had been as easy. Though it was certainly straightforward. Credit where it’s due, I suppose.

***

_(Present, an unnamed cavern in the Korath desert foothills of the Tir Tochair)_

In the deep cave, high and dry against the desert winds, the small fire crackled vibrantly in its tiny hearth.

"You did not. Shovel cow shit. For coin." Warrit laughed. The scarred old Witcher’s voice carried good humored disbelief into the darkness of the cave as he handed the bottle of questionable liquor back to Zeren.

"Damn right I did." Zeren’s perpetual smirk never faltered.

"Zeren!” Warritt sounded mildly horrified “Have some professional pride!"

"I did!” Zeren actually laughed, smirk becoming an open grin. “Many things to be proud of occurred. The barn was cleared and repaired in record time. No humans had to be killed. And that pretty farmer’s daughter learned things about her own body that she never knew before. I'm a teacher, Warritt.” he gestured grandly with the bottle held in one hand, “I'm a professional!"

"Zeren..... You're a fucking menace."

“And damned proud of it.” He took a pull from the bottle and passed it over his shoulder to Nhelan, who took it without hesitation. Zeren considered the chestnut haired youth in the dim firelight, and Lath next to him. He wasn’t sure he could pinpoint the moment in the years since Gorthur Gvaed had fallen, but somewhere along the line he’d stopped thinking of them as kids. They weren’t Vipers. Not really. They’d never faced the Trials. But in some ways maybe they are. _They’ve certainly grown._ _A few years ago he’d never have taken that bottle._ Zeren chuckled a bit, mostly to himself. The boys weren’t really boys anymore.

“What’s amusing you, oh Fallen Star?” Warritt teased him, using the strange name that the wandering tribe in this part of the desert had taken to giving Zeren.

“That stupid fucking name, among other things.” he paused, “It’s not a compliment, to them.”

“Doesn’t seem to be, no.”

Lath spoke from the shadowed side wall of the cave. Something else none of the boys who escaped hell with them would have done at first. “I missed that one. When did that happen?” The dark haired youth took the bottle from Nhelan, took his swig from it without flinching, and handed it back to Warritt to make another round.

Zeren let the fire speak alone for a time. It was not a pleasant memory. After a while, Warritt spoke up. The old Viper leaned back against the wall, dancing firelight turning the ruin of his face to something truly nightmarish. Zeren didn’t flinch. He was used to it, and Warritt clearly managed just fine. “It was only the first year after making it out here, if I recall correctly.”

“You do.”

“It was a hell of a situation. We’d only just managed to contact any of the wandering tribes. Witchers are almost unheard of out here, nothing but a legend to them and not a good legend either.” Warritt finally took a swig from the bottle and handed it over to Zeren who very quickly helped himself to a solid pull of the burning liquor. This was definitely not one of his favorite stories.

“They’d holed up at the oasis north of here," the old Witcher continued, "the one in the really low pass between those low ridges. They were waiting out something in their religious calendar. I don’t even remember what.”

“Waiting for the moon to reappear.” Zeren interjected. It was important. The night had been moonless.

Warritt paused, considering. “Yes. That was it. They were waiting on the moon’s turn. And suddenly there were fewer of them and they couldn’t figure it. It was dumb luck we were crossing the same ridge at the time.”

“And if we’d been smarter we’d have passed the whole thing by once we realized what was in that cave.” Zeren’s voice turned bitter.

“Even your atrophied conscience couldn’t have left them to deal with a fucking bullvore.”

Nhelan and Lath both gasped softly. Nhelan spoke. “I thought those had all been cleaned out a long time ago?”

“Well they missed one.” Zeren tried to keep the snarl out of his voice. The kid didn’t deserve it. He winced. _Not a kid anymore._ Zeren handed the bottle over as a kind of silent apology.

“Yeah.” Warritt said softly, sorrow and firelight conspiring to make his scarred and sightless face even more disconcerting than usual. “They did.” For a time no one spoke. The fire muttered to itself, well shielded from the wind and any wandering eyes. “Trust me, hearing its shape wasn’t any prettier than seeing it.”

“The things are a spectacular kind of ugly.” Zeren agreed. “Chaos-formed, not bred. And they fucking look it.”

Warritt nodded and continued. “They thought some kind of demon was in the cave in the ridge and, in all fairness, if you don’t know what a bullvore is, it’s not an unreasonable conclusion to draw. They’re rare, and not well known even as legends.”

“They thought we were a legend come to life. Thought they were about to witness some clash of demi-gods or some such thing.” Zeren remembered it all too well. The looks of shock and fear when his eyes had caught the light of the torch in their ceremonial altar. He knew what he looked like, and cast in the firelight Zeren figured it wasn’t an unreasonable conclusion either. “They didn’t know what to make of you.”

Warritt grinned, the motion twisting his scars obscenely. “No, they didn’t. But it worked to my advantage. They didn’t know what they could and couldn’t get away with so they didn’t try anything at all. A cautious people.”

“It’s a hard land. It demands caution.”

“True.”

Lath spoke again from his perch in the shadow. “We must have been with Onnos and Welch.”

“You were, Mino too. It was just me and Zeren and-” Warritt paused as the memory overtook him for a moment and Zeren braced himself, “Desten.”

 _Fuck. I will never be able to hear his name without it hurting_. Something sharp and dark slithered through the air in the cavern as each of them held the memory of the fallen Viper for a while. Zeren knew his own scent had betrayed him when Warritt spoke softly.

“I miss him too, Zeren. Though I suspect not the same way.”

Zeren said nothing. He couldn’t. Desten had been in his age group, though he’d been at the keep longer. They were a right pair, and while Zeren would never have admitted it out loud, part of the reason he had progressed so quickly had been to match up to the taller boy, who had been further along in his training. He remembered the dread, and the relief when they’d both survived their Trials. Years later, when they’d met again on the Path, that friendship had blossomed into something else. The older Vipers had turned a blind eye to it as long as it didn’t get either of them lynched.

There would never be another Desten.

He let Warritt tell the rest of the story. He’d heard the whole thing and knew exactly how it had played out. Zeren and Desten, one more fight. They’d taken down all manner of monsters, beast shaped and otherwise, together. It should have been just one more. But it hadn’t been.

It had turned into a nightmare, and not only for the sheer hideousness of the creature. They’d been in this desert for years now with that damned name trailing him and the weight of grief driving him into the sand. In those years Zeren still had not figured out what went wrong. Bullvores vomit a horrifically caustic sludge as a weapon, and it had turned just a fraction of a second faster than Desten had sidestepped.

Zeren still woke from nightmares of Desten’s agonized screaming. Still woke from nightmares of realizing that no amount of any potion was going to save him, and of hearing Desten beg him for mercy. Knowing that torturous death was certain, Zeren had given Desten the only thing he could- a swift end- and snapped his own lover’s neck.

“They saw what you had to do, what Desten was begging you to do.” Warritt was finishing the tale. Nhelan and Lath were still as the stones they leaned against, expressions of horror on their faces. They had only known that Desten hadn’t come back that time. Zeren hadn’t been able to talk about it. “Not one single soul on the sand that night blamed you. It was mercy, Zeren, and you know it.”

“They might not have blamed me but they named me for it.” Zeren’s usually warm tenor was harsh with pain, why had the old Witcher even brought the night up? “Fallen Star. The stars are part of their religion.” He knew he was snarling now, but didn’t care. “Cold and uncaring. Their light is a lie.”

“Cold, yes.” Warritt wasn’t even going to argue that point but he continued. He was pushing for something and Zeren didn’t like it. “But beautiful, as well as deadly, and holding much knowledge.”

Zeren snorted. Deadly, he’d accept, and, well, he knew what he looked like. He used it to his advantage often enough. He said as much, and the not-quite-Vipers both huffed out small laughs. Those stories they enjoyed, at least.

“You’re a cold man, Zeren. You’ve had to be. And you’re one devil of a Witcher. These people use those same cold, deadly, beautiful stars to navigate. The stars lead them home.”

Zeren froze. “You can’t be serious, old man.”

“I am. There’s nothing out here for us. Forgive an old man his poetry, Zeren, but we need a star to guide us home. It’s time to go back.”

“Onnos put you up to this?”

“And Welch.” Warritt said flatly. “They aren’t any happier out here than I am. If we’re really all that’s left, we need to go back.”

Zeren had heard the argument before. He’d had it with himself, with Onnos, with Welch. The Hunt still rode. Monsters still ate. No empire could last forever and the Vipers- all the Witchers really, though each had their definite specialty- were needed. He was running out of reasons not to cross back over the Tir Tochair.

Except the one. The reason that kept him from sleep more often than any other. If they really were all that was left of the Vipers, he’d be leading them to their destruction.

“Welch and Onnos will be back with Mino tomorrow.” Zeren finally said. “We’ll talk about it then.”

The fire had burned low. Nhelan leaned over and dropped more fuel on the small, efficient hearth. Warritt nodded. “As you say, then.” Zeren stood, stepping silently around Nhelan and the complex line of boulders blocking the wind from the cavern mouth until he stood in the frigid night beneath the desert stars.


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh Zeren, Zeren, Zeren.... what are you running from my ice-hearted darling? Oh wait. Yourself.

_Present, an unnamed cavern at the edge of the Korath Desert, foothills of the Tir Tochair_

Even as a child, and much to the consternation of his peers, Zeren had always genuinely liked the early morning. There was something about the air, the light, the sounds that energized him and left him feeling more alive and more aware. Early mornings in the high desert were stunning, and harsh in their contrast from black shadow to burning light, frigid air to desiccating heat. Zeren’s favorite time of day was that brief moment when the extremes met and stood in balance with each other. 

_If the old man knew it he’d never let me live it down, either. Talk about poetic bullshit._

It was this balanced dawn when Zeren preferred to train, running through his routine of stretches and exercises that kept him at peak performance. Zeren had given up on religion a long, long time ago. If he still worshipped anything, it was preparedness. _And expediency._

He was expecting the return of the other two Vipers and one other not-quite-Viper. They’d been off to meet with some of the same local tribe at an oasis to the south, near one of the passes. One of the rare trading caravans that crossed into this part of the desert was due and they were looking for supplies. Welch was a solid fighter, reliable, and a patient teacher. He had a head for alchemy that Zeren had swallowed his own pride enough to learn from, and his own potions and poisons had improved significantly as a result. Mino was a good kid, too. He, Nhelan, and Lath were the only ones left that Zeren knew of who had trained in Gorther Gvaed but been forced to flee before they could be subjected to the mages’ Trials. They’d been young. They were still young. Not much more than boys still, but work-hardened by the last few years scraping by in the Desert. 

Onnos was a problem. Zeren felt himself tense at the thought of the other Viper returning. Onnos had never been as understanding as the others about Desten. The way he’d reacted to Desten’s death had been particularly ugly. The only thing that had saved his life was Warritt pleading with Zeren and saying “There are too few of us as it is.” Still in shock from his lover’s violent end, Zeren had yielded to Warritt’s plea. 

More than once since that hellish night Zeren had regretted not killing Onnos when he’d had the chance. 

The soft sound of footsteps on sand drifted up the rocky wall. Zeren stopped. Only one set of footsteps. That wasn’t right. He snatched his shirt off the rock he’d dropped it on and, with long practiced ease, slid and slithered down the stone to the cavern entrance. He knew he stood out against it, pale as he was. Zeren worked almost exclusively by frozen nights in the desert. The sun and his pale complexion didn’t agree with one another. 

He’d expected Mino running ahead. What he saw was the sun darkened, handsomely strong-featured face of Talvor, one of the tribal leaders. Talvor eyed the approaching Witcher appreciatively and Zeren grinned, shameless as ever. Talvor and his wife, Fan, were both very handsome people and Zeren would be lying if he said he’d never thought about it. 

“It pains me to say it, Fallen Star, but your magnificent form is not what brings me to your home in the rocks.” Talvor's voice was deep, gentle, and held a fair share of good humor. He was a truly pleasant man. Zeren enjoyed his company, despite the name. There weren’t many like him in the world. “I’ve come to bid you travel swiftly to the southern oasis. Your brother in arms lies wounded in our defense.”

_Fuck._ “What happened?” Zeren was already moving into the cavern, waving for Talvor to follow. He knew Warritt would have heard everything up to and including Talvor’s heartbeat from outside. They kept packs ready for just this sort of contingency. It wouldn’t take long to be moving. Zeren rolled blankets and rations into the bags while Talvor explained the situation and Warritt roused the two youths. 

Even in the desert, there were bandits. Especially on the few and precious trade routes. The two Vipers and the Viper-trained youth had taken care of the band completely but Welch had been hurt. Ingredients for their potions were hard to come by out here, so he was recovering on his own. He’d be fine, based on what Talvor was describing, but Zeren wouldn’t allow himself to leave Welch there without him. There were, as this morning’s memory trip had reminded him, too few of them left. 

None of them were looking forward to traveling much by day, but they’d be in the shadows of this spine of the Tir Tochair soon enough. 

It was a grueling slog across shattered stone and sand, sun and wind racing to see which could dry them to bone first. Zeren was relentless. None of them would be significantly worse for the wear, and Welch was hurt. Calculation complete, as far as he was concerned. 

Zeren and Warritt smelled the oasis long before it came in sight. One didn’t think much on the smell of water until it was scarce. Both Witchers paused, sniffing the air, and smiled. Talvor shivered. “It’s all too easy to forget,” the tribal Chief said at Zeren’s questioning look “just how much _more_ you are.” Zeren didn’t quite know how to respond to that, and apparently neither did Warritt as the scarred Witcher said nothing. 

The brutal sun had long since fallen to the other side of the mountains when they reached the camp, and the air was beginning to cool rapidly. Talvor took the two Witchers and the two youths directly to a tent near the heart of the oasis. He ducked inside, and Zeren and Warritt followed, gesturing to the two youths to wait. 

Zeren’s eyes adjusted immediately to the low light and he almost wished they hadn’t. Welch looked rough. The older Viper had always had a kind of scruffiness to him that was hard to define yet oddly endearing for someone who worked more in poison than with a blade whenever he could. He looked tired, and lines of pain were drawn around his eyes. 

“Zeren”, his voice sounded weak and Zeren felt his own concern rise “You did come.”

“Of course I did. Can’t let you get all the attention, now can I?” He was teasing, his voice light, but the injury was significant. Welch’s entire left side had been laid open by a slashing blade. Muscle and skin had been expertly cleaned, stitched, and bound and the Witcher’s own rapid healing ability would see him through it, but he was in for a painful couple of days. “Talvor said it was bandits.”

“Talvor said rightly. A lot of them. They knew the caravan would be here.”

“That’s it’s own problem. Any survivors?”

“None that we could get hold of. A few escaped, but not many and all injured. Onnos and Mino went after them. They clearly didn’t expect any actual fight.” 

“Then their stupidity bought their deaths. And you defended our only friends out here. You did good, Welch, and it looks like they’ve got you put mostly back together.”

Welch actually smiled. A real, honest smile. “Aye that they did. They were a little afraid at first but Talvor’s wife, Fan- I guess she’s a little more used to us by now- stepped right in and started ordering the others around. Got me set square.”

“Good. I’m glad she was here, then.” Zeren really was. Welch had lost a lot of blood, but the wound smelled clean, and some scarring was already visible. “She knows she’s gonna have to take those stitches back out tomorrow, right?” Zeren hesitated, “Unless you’d rather I did it.”

“Either way.” Welch said gently. “She’s got a good touch and I imagine you’ll have enough to deal with.” It was a polite enough refusal that it almost didn’t hurt. Hell, Welch probably meant it exactly as he’d said it. 

“Alright, keep the pretty lady to yourself then. Leave me wrangling the whole band alone. I see your plan.”

Welch laughed and immediately stopped, wincing. “Don’t make me laugh. Fuck.” 

Zeren ducked his head, chagrined. “I’ll let you rest. Wanted to make sure you were taken care of.”

“I’m fine, Zeren. Or I will be.” Zeren turned to leave, Warritt behind him still silent. “Zeren?”

“Yeah, Welch?”

“Thank you.” The injured Witcher closed his eyes and settled back to rest. Zeren left. rolling the thanks over in his mind as he went. 

As the two Witchers left the tent, Talvor met them again to offer food and a place for the night. The food they accepted gladly and Zeren soon bullied Warritt, Nhelan, and Lath into bedrolls before settling in to meditate. He doubted sleep would find him.


	4. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the rest of our broken band of exiles finally show their faces.

_ An oasis near the edge of the Korath desert, in sight of the foothills of the Tir Tochair _

Zeren meditated through the bitter night, and roused himself in the chill pre-dawn. He slipped carefully through the tent flap, leaving the warmth behind and found an open space. By the time he was finished his morning stretch and workout and had worked up a light sweat, he had an audience. 

He never quite knew what to make of the attention from onlookers like that. Objectively, Zeren knew he was attractive, despite the scars the Path had left on him. Tall, broad shouldered, well muscled, graceful, and controlled. All generally good things. Attraction and even admiration he understood and knew how to deflect or use as it suited him. 

The thread of fear was the part making him uncomfortable.

Thankfully, Fan on her way past shooed the watching tribesfolk back to work. She was handsome, rather than pretty, though to Zeren that was simply a different kind of attractive. Tall and bold described Fan well. The desert was a hard land, and it bred hard people, but in her that hardness was, as in her husband, tempered by genuine good humor. 

“I hope they did not disturb you, Fallen Star.” Zeren’s wince had nothing to do with her voice, which was warm and rich and pleasant. Just that fucking name. 

“Not at all, Weaver.” Zeren defaulted to her title, which meant more a weaver of connections, friendships, marriages, and alliances than actual weaving of cloth. She suited it. And it made her smile.  _ Acknowledgement has a way of doing that. _

“Good. I’ve just come from seeing your brother in arms. He warned me that he would recover from the wound quickly but… actually seeing the speed of it is astonishing.” 

“We pay a heavy price for it.” Zeren let some of the bitterness through. He knew the stark morning light highlighted the scars littering his arms and torso, as many from blades as from claws or teeth. Fan only nodded.

“So he said. And so I see. But come. There will be breakfast soon, and I am sure you are hungry.” Zeren definitely was, and gladly took the offer. 

It wasn’t until the haze of midday heat hung over the oasis that Onnos and Mino finally returned from tracking the last of the bandits. Zeren was resting in the shade of the fruit bearing palms, unashamedly taking his ease now that everything seemed truly under control, when he heard familiar steps moving in his direction. 

Of the three surviving youths, Mino was the oldest at nearly fifteen. He had been the last out with Zeren on that night of screams. Zeren had watched the boy grow from an awkward, undersized child to the wiry hard eyed youth currently stalking him through the dappled shade. He had a flair for the dramatic, Mino did. It was usually amusing.  _ Usually.  _

Zeren let him get close. “I’ve known you were there since you passed the kitchen tent, boy.” Zeren growled. There was no real anger in it, mild irritation at most. If the kid wanted to play, he’d allow it. 

“Well fuck.”

Zeren snorted.  _ Kid must’ve learned to swear from me. Fuck.  _ Then Mino dropped the real game. 

“Onnos says you’re a lazy snake.” Zeren could hear the ear-to-ear grin. 

“When was the last time I made you run an obstacle course, Mino.” It wasn’t a question. It was the only warning Mino got. In the next heartbeat, Zeren rolled off the pallet he’d dropped between himself and the sandy soil and was on his feet, already lunging toward the youth. Mino had just enough time to yelp in only half-feigned fear before taking off through the camp. 

Zeren let him run. Un-changed by the Trials, the boy was no match for a Witcher. Compared to most, the Viper-trained youth was a terror. Over a line, under a branch, doubled back between two tents, around another corner. Zeren stayed a stride behind, running easily despite the heat. They had garnered some attention, but he didn’t really care. Let the boy run. Onnos could make anyone want to run away. 

Finally he’d had enough of the unnecessary work in the heat. Zeren stretched out for one more stride and dove low, reaching one hand around Mino’s ankle, flipping the boy onto his face in the sand. Zeren cleared his fallen form, rolled the landing and came lightly to his feet, brushing off sand and dirt. He eyed the lean youth. 

“Got that out of your system?”

“Aye, Zeren.”

“Good. Go get water.”

“Aye, Zeren.” Mino’s laugh was echoed by those who had stopped to watch the Witcher school the boy. Zeren had to admit it had been fun. He started to head back to his shady spot. 

“Fucking creepy, Zeren.”

_ Fuck. Here we go.  _

“Nice to see you too, Onnos.”

Zeren turned back toward the rest of the camp and the older Viper. Onnos was watching him with an ugly smile on his darkly handsome face. They were opposites in many ways, the other Witcher was lean as whipcord where Zeren was muscular, dark haired and olive skinned where Zeren’s pale hair, not currently wrapped beneath his usual headscarf for a change, brushed against his fair skinned face. Onnos snarled at the world, while Zeren smirked and sought ways to make the Path less miserable whenever he could. They never had gotten along. 

With this many people watching, Zeren knew he had to play very carefully. 

“Talvor told me you and Mino had gone after the last few bandits. Good call.” 

“Don’t fucking try it.” Onnos growled at him. The onlookers shifted uncomfortably, the smell of fear beginning to creep into the searing hot air. Zeren felt himself recalculating rapidly. Onnos wasn’t just his usual unpleasant self, he was angry. The smaller Witcher started slowly toward him across the dappled sand and Zeren felt his own adrenaline spike. This was not good. 

“You’ve been nothing but words since Desten fucking died.” Onnos was snarling openly. “Excuses and deflections and flattery. You lost your fucking nerve, boy. Do you know what was in that fucking caravan?” Onnos’ voice climbed in volume with every word. He wasn’t just angry, he was livid. Zeren was suddenly acutely aware of how far his hands were from his longknives as Onnos crossed into striking range. The dark-haired Witcher stopped, breathing hard, his face twisted in fury as he shouted his accusatory question. “Do you have any fucking clue?”

It took all of his willpower and training for Zeren to keep his voice level when he answered. Damn if someone else’s tantrum was going to make him lose his own control. “No. But you will tell me.” The scent of fear in the air spiked suddenly and dramatically at the ice in Zeren’s voice. 

“You’re fucking right I will!” Onnos fairly screamed at him, any semblance of the control the Vipers had been taught cracking away “Viper armor! Our gear, Zeren! Our weapons! Our books! I remember the map hanging in the fucking library! They’re looting our keep while you hide in the desert you fucking coward!” Onnos’ lean form shifted, coiling to spring.

Had Onnos been any less blinded by his own fury, Zeren would never have been able to do it. In a blur of motion the larger Witcher claimed the offensive stance and crossed the space between them, knocked Onnos hard off balance and spun him around and down, catching his attempt to block and turning it into a vicious joint lock. In a single slow heartbeat, Zeren had him pinned. Someone watching screamed. Onnos cursed him from the sand, insulting his intelligence, his skill with a blade, and his sexual preferences in language that would have been impressive in other circumstances, but Zeren held him. Held him until his fury exhausted itself and the curses broke into ragged gasps that might, almost, have been sobs. 

The first breath of evening breeze teased the sweat trickling down Zeren’s face and body from the effort of restraining Onnos for so long. He sensed Warritt and Talvor both approaching as he slowly, carefully, released the other Witcher from his grip. Zeren kept his expression deliberately cold, and his voice low. “We all knew that was coming as soon as Gorthur Gvaed fell.” Zeren stepped back and let Onnos pick himself up. “We knew we’d be out here a while until it was worth the risk of going back.”

“It’s worth the fucking risk.” Onnos staggered to his feet, he was still angry but unless all of Zeren’s training and experience was suddenly wrong, the other Witcher had no fight left in him. 

_ For now _ . 

“It’s been time, Zeren. They’re looting our home.” Onnos was struggling to regain his control but Zeren heard the crack in his voice.  _ Our home.  _

“I believe you.” 

It was true. For all of his faults and tendency to see the worst in things, Onnos wasn’t likely to attempt to lie to him.  _ He knows he’d never get away with it.  _ The older Witcher looked up at him sharply as he continued. “If the populace has become that comfortable with the ruins then we have a good chance of getting back in under cover and figuring out our best path on the other side of the mountains.” Zeren half turned, dismissing Onnos with his posture as much as with his voice. “Find the boys and go see Welch. We’ll talk about it when we’re all together. Not before.”

Onnos glared at him for a moment before turning and walking away. He gave a curt gesture to Mino, who had stood in spellbound horror at the dangerous confrontation. The youth fell in behind Onnos as he strode past, casting a long, unreadable look back at Zeren as they left the shaded space. 

When Onnos and Mino were out of sight, Zeren finally released the breath he’d been holding. He looked over at Warritt and Talvor, who, Zeren realized, had said nothing. “You too, Warritt.” his voice when he spoke to the old Witcher was once again gentle, though clearly holding no room for argument. “All of us. Not before.” Warritt nodded in acquiescence and left. 

Talvor approached. Zeren ran a hand through his own sweat dampened hair, finally allowing some of the coiled tension to bleed away now that Warritt was also out of sight. For a moment, Talvor just watched him, dark eyes catching golden as the shadows began to lengthen in the oasis. Finally, the tribe leader spoke. 

“I know that you do not care for the title, Fallen Star, but I see that I was correct to give it to you. When you are finished with them, please, come find me.” Talvor paused, waiting. Though clearly accustomed to being obeyed by the members of his own tribe, he had made the request as to an equal, and was giving Zeren time to turn him down. That alone got his attention. 

“I will.”

Talvor smiled, nodded, and left. The rest of the watchers began to drift away, leaving the Witcher to turn the last several minutes over in his mind as the evening winds began to blow. 


	5. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leadership is a two-edged sword, isn't it, Zeren.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not an explicit fic, nor is it a slash fic, but it IS about to earn its M rating. Tags will be updated and future chapters will embrace some heavier ideas as we get deeper into Zeren's head and his journey back to a more familiar part of the Continent.

_ An oasis near the edge of the Korath Desert, in sight of the foothills of the Tir Tochair _

Zeren wasn’t entirely sure whether he was giving Onnos or himself time to calm down before meeting the rest of the exiled Vipers. It probably didn’t matter, the result would be the same. As he made his way back, he realized that the movement of the tribe around him had changed. While the people in this tribe seemed to default to politely friendly where all of the Witchers were concerned, they had always granted Zeren a bit more space. They remembered the night Desten had died almost as well as he did and they held some residual fear of him. But now that fear was on the surface again. Men, women, and children alike all stepped out of their way to clear a path for him in the crowd. They all watched him through lowered eyes. Zeren could smell their fear and his skin prickled at the danger it presented. 

_ Damn Onnos for that.  _

Zeren again ran a hand through the sweat roughened tangles in his hair, and scratched briefly at the itching, darker blond stubble on his jaw. He stopped himself. Bad enough to feel that uncomfortable without broadcasting it. 

When he reached the tent, Zeren forced himself to walk right in, never breaking stride. His eyes adjusted immediately to the gloom, taking in the familiar faces of Welch, Warritt, Onnos, Nhelan, Lath, and Mino all perched or standing at various points around the sheltered space. Fan and a teenaged girl who he thought was one of her apprentices were packing away an assortment of healing ointments. Their pungent scents made the small tent feel even tighter. The girl looked terrified. When Zeren entered, she squeaked and dropped the cloth she was folding. Fan spoke up. 

“Ah good.  _ You  _ at least can make him wait one more day before he tries to go anywhere.” The Weaver of the tribe stood confidently, one hand resting on her hip while her student recovered and packed the rest of their tools. “I’ve never seen a healing ability like yours, but even your flesh has limits. One more day, Fallen Star.” 

“Then one more day it will be.”

Welch made a noise of protest but Zeren cut him off. “I mean it, Welch. I’m not going to have you tear that open again.” It was the same voice he’d used on Warritt earlier, gentle but brooking no argument. The day was available, the healing potions weren’t. Calculation complete. He said as much and Welch huffed but yielded. Fan smiled a strange, proud smile, and left. Her apprentice kept close to her shadow on the way out. 

Silence fell. 

Zeren let it rule for a long moment. In truth, he found dramatics distasteful. But they were damned useful, too. 

Mino shifted uncomfortably, looking from Zeren to Onnos to Warritt and back. Zeren took pity on the youth. “I believe what Onnos has reported about the contents of the caravan.” He knew he sounded tired, but he worked to also sound calm. They needed it as much as he did. “If the populace on the other side of the Tir Tochair is comfortable enough in the ruins of Gorthur Gvaed to go rummaging through them, then it may be our chance to slip back in unobserved and learn how best to move forward.”

“What took so fucking long.” Onnos huffed. He was still upset, but the dangerous tension from earlier was gone. Zeren glared at him. The boys tensed. 

“Keeping as many of you alive as possible.” Zeren fired back. “You know damned well that going back while we were actively being hunted would have been a death sentence.” It had been the one fear even he couldn’t put to rest; that taking them back through the steep passes would lead them all directly into the fire they had so narrowly escaped. “But if the pressure has eased that much, then it’s time to try.”

For a long time no one spoke. He could see anger on Onnos’ face, confusion on the boys. Welch, however, breathed an audible sigh of relief. “Alright.” The poisons expert said, tugging at the bandage over his healing ribs. “What next, then?”

Fortunately, actually planning the return journey was not as complex as it might have seemed. They were Witchers, after all. A few short years in the desert could not undo decades of training and experience. Zeren let Welch and Warritt between them sort out most of the logistics. Rations and equipment to pack, heavier less necessary tools to leave behind, best times to travel which passes, and more. Once set on a goal, his Vipers wasted no time hammering out a plan to achieve it. 

His Vipers.  _ When in the fuck did that happen.  _

***

With the execution of his decision safely in the competent, experienced hands of the other Vipers, Zeren left to see Talvor. He’d said he would, after all. 

He knew the way, and as chill darkness settled over the oasis, Zeren found himself outside a tent only minimally more impressive than any of the others circled nearby. The only real luxury in the tent was its proximity to the well and daytime shade. Talvor and Fan showed their authority in other ways.  _ Like bossing Witchers around in the healing tent. _ Zeren allowed himself a small huff of a laugh. “Chief? Weaver?” He spoke just loud enough to carry. 

“Come in, Fallen Star.” Talvor’s deep mellow voice beckoned him inside. Sighing resignedly against the name, Zeren ducked between the flaps of the tent. 

The inside of the Chief’s tent was a different story entirely from its unassuming outside. Soft rugs were piled on the floor against the sharp stones and chill night, tapestries hung about the inner walls providing both insulation and privacy well beyond what the wind worn cloth on the outside might offer. Cushions were piled to create lounges akin to low couches. Zeren straightened and took a moment to appreciate just how quiet it was inside with all that cloth. It was a relief. 

The lessening tension must have shown. “Yes, it is much quieter in here.” Fan said with a smile “as much as we appreciate it, must be even more of a relief to you, Zeren.” Her use of his name surprised him. Fan had never called him by anything other than that strange title. “Inside these walls,” she explained to him, “all chiefs are only men.” 

_ Ah.  _

_ Wait.  _

_ What? _

“Make yourself comfortable in my home, Zeren.” Talvor gestured to include a folding rack inside the tent entrance where several sets of boots and an assortment of weapon belts and weapons were neatly arranged, as well as the all too comfortable looking cushion arrangements on the deep rugs. 

_ I doubt anyone here is capable as long as I’m paying any kind of attention….  _ Somewhat uneasy at the thought, Zeren followed the implied instruction and left his own boots and knives in line. He noticed the look of surprise when Talvor realized just how many knives were in the pile. Zeren smirked. Just a little. 

“Remind me never to even attempt to take you by surprise.” 

“It’s not generally recommended.” 

Laughing, Talvor gestured again to the cushions and Zeren yielded to the offered comfort, lowering himself gracefully and gratefully onto the suggested pile. Talvor did the same, and Fan next to him. For one indulgent moment, Zeren just let himself appreciate the soft comfort, not bothering to stifle the small sigh that escaped his lips. 

Fan gestured to a young woman waiting at the back of the tent with a covered tray. Her posture was tense, eyes low to the ground though she kept stealing brief looks at the Witcher in the tent as she brought the tray and set it carefully in the center of the three lounging. “Thank you, Setta. If we require anything we will send for you.” Fan’s voice was gentle but the dismissal was very clear. Setta scurried back and out a rear flap as quickly as decorum would allow. 

“Apologies for her behavior, Zeren. She should know better.” 

“I’m not offended, Fan. It’s… a pretty normal reaction.” 

“A reaction you and your brothers do not deserve.” Talvor said. “I’ve seen nothing but bravery in battle, dedicated teaching, and concern for one another’s well being.” Zeren eyed the other man somewhat dubiously. He had been there earlier this afternoon, hadn’t he? Talvor laughed as Fan took the cover off the tray and began pouring three cups of sweet smelling tea. “Even when Onnos came looking for a fight, ready to challenge you in fact, you would have been justified in almost any action yet you chose to preserve him, if not his dignity.”

“There aren’t enough of us left for that.” Zeren told him. He was focused on the aroma of the tea. It was at once alien and familiar, with a sweet spicy note to it that he could just…

_ That’s damiana. Sweet goddess, that's an expensive cup of tea.  _ He’d only encountered the herb once before but the memory was a vivid one. In addition to its unusual flavor, it was an aphrodisiac. 

“And that restraint is as much a part of what earned you your own title as any skill.” Talvor said. He was watching Zeren closely, and he had definitely seen the recognition on the Witcher’s face. 

“You’re the first one who called me that, yet I don’t think anyone has ever told me exactly what it means.” Zeren was, oddly enough, in his element. The spoken conversation was real and important. The unspoken one, though completely different, was just as real. Tracking both was letting him exercise training that hadn’t seen use in some time. Despite the strangeness of the situation, Zeren was enjoying himself. 

“It’s not a title given lightly, or often.” Fan told him, “the stars are very distant, and their ways are strange.” She passed first one and then two cups of the tea to Talvor, who took up the explanation.

“We think of them as cold, calculating, and wise. But then… we have it from our ancient fathers that our sun is itself a star, and that all stars must burn just as fiercely.” Talvor offered the second cup to Zeren as Fan picked up her own. He thought about it for all of one slow heartbeat.

“A fallen star, then, has brought that wisdom and fire down to the world of men. They may be cold, but at the same time, they burn brightly, and may guide many through the darkness.” Fan’s voice washed over him as Zeren accepted the cup from Talvor, his fingertips just brushing the other man’s as he smiled openly. 

Zeren placed the metaphor in the back of his mind for later evaluation. The night promised to be an interesting one. 


	6. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zeren, you're a menace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did warn you about the lack of schedule.
> 
> Somehow, Welch is the wordy one. Gonna have to keep an eye on him.

_ An oasis near the edge of the Korath Desert, in sight of the foothills of the Tir Tochair _

“Is there any particular reason you decided to gloom up my excellent morning with your disapproving glare?”

“Don’t fucking talk to me about your fucking excellent morning, Zeren.” Onnos snarled at the younger Witcher. “You stink like both of them.”

“Probably because I fucked both of them.” Zeren said matter-of-factly, slowly extending his stretch to work the fatigue out of his back and shoulders. 

“You are,” Onnos paused “absolutely shameless.”

“Correct.” 

“You’re also supposed to be going down to see the caravan before they leave.”

“Also correct. I’m about done.” He was, in fact, precisely finished with the last bit of stretching out that was his preferred morning routine. If he’d started a little later than normal today, well, who was going to argue with him? Zeren didn’t even bother to hide what he knew must be a truly impish grin at the thought. 

“I don’t even  _ want _ to know what you’re grinning about you fucking perv.”

“Stuff it, Onnos. Consenting adults can do as they like.” Zeren had used the line often enough that even the boys parrotted it sometimes, at one story or another. The older Witcher just rolled his eyes and muttered something extremely unflattering. 

“Rude. Are Warritt and the boys up yet?”

“Yes, for once you didn’t beat everyone to the sunrise. On second thought, might want to let you have your fun with the chief more often. You actually sleep til a normal hour.”

“Pre-dawn is a perfectly normal hour.” Zeren shot back. He walked over to the puddle of cloth on the ground that was his worn thin shirt and head wrap. He threw the shirt on, belted it loosely, and with the speed of long practice braided back his pale blond hair and tied on the wrap. Most of his hair had grown out again, the half shaved style he favored simply not practical in the desert. “Now, I believe I have a tradesman or three to guilt into giving me our stuff back.”

***

As it turned out, fear was a shockingly good motivator for trade. 

Zeren had walked into the stall tent with a warm “Bid you good morning, sir.” and the answering simper had turned to a sharp yelp the moment the Witcher’s golden eyes caught the morning glare of the sun. 

“Aye, M- Master Witcher.” the tradesmaster had stammered, “Bid you a good morning as well, sir. Chief Talvor, yes, he said you might be by after a few things.” The narrow, sharp eyed man was clasping his hands together hard to keep from wringing them. 

“Oh.” Zeren knew he was all but purring and the stall soon smelled of nothing but the tradesmaster’s fear “I’m sure he did. So let’s take a look at those things, shall we?”

To his credit, Onnos kept his mouth mostly shut while Zeren talked, coaxed, threatened, and flattered in turn until he had most of what he wanted. Replacements for lost and damaged armor and fighting knives had been his top priority. He walked away with a useful amount of kit for the boys, a replacement for Welch’s offhand dagger, replacements for Onnos’ shredded gauntlets, and only paid a little bit more than the traveling gear he'd also added to the stack was worth. 

“You” Onnos finally said when they were safely out of human earshot, “are a fucking menace.”

“And damned proud of it.”

The hike back to the other side of the oasis proved mostly uneventful, even as the crates and packs grew heavier. Onnos complained, but only a little, so Zeren let it pass without comment.  _ If he ever stops complaining, then I’ll worry. _

Passing the well, Zeren spotted Setta, the young serving woman. At first he paid her no mind. She had clearly been uncomfortable in his presence and he was not interested in causing any more of a scene than he already had with the trademaster. Then she looked up and saw the two Witchers.

Several feet of rope slid through Setta’s hands before she regained control.  _ That probably hurt. _ She stared wide-eyed at the two men carrying their haul. Out of long habit, Zeren scented the air.  _ Well that’s interesting.  _ He had expected fear, and the sour smell of it was clear in the dry air. He had not anticipated the turmoil of scents that he usually interpreted as desire. 

Zeren glanced at Onnos, knowing full well that the other Viper would have picked up the same scent in the air as he had. Two sets of golden eyes flicked across the clearing to the young woman by the well. She could not have seen more than idle curiosity as both Witchers simply filed the information and kept walking. But the effect was still startling. The poor woman fairly squeaked, letting go the rope entirely, and fled. The bucket’s fall was halted by the heavy anchor stone weighing down the end of the rope. 

Onnos let out a short, harsh laugh but Zeren just shook his head. Fear and desire were exquisitely painful when in conflict with one another. The internal tension had been known to drive men- and no few women- quite mad. 

They rounded a canvas corner toward the place where his ragged nest of Vipers had been staying and Zeren suddenly found reason to be actually aggravated. 

“The fuck are you doing out of bed, Welch.” 

“Peace, Zeren, I’m being careful.” The older Viper raised his hands in a placating gesture that was only partly playful. “I’d about lost my mind staring at the same walls that long. You know how it is.”

“Fan told you one more day,  _ I  _ told you one more day.” Zeren dropped his crate and pack next to the tent wall and levelled an impressively icy glare at the perpetually scruffy Witcher. Welch winced. 

“I know you did. And I know why you did. Please, let me finish.” Welch sighed and continued “I know perfectly well I’m not traveling yet. But I had to look at something other than the inside of that canvas for a while. Not able to even take proper care of my own self, it’s… it’s humiliating it is.” 

Well, Zeren could grant him that one. None of them liked feeling helpless. 

“Warritt hasn’t hardly left my side and one or another of the boys is always nearby and I know perfectly well you told them to do that and I’m not sure whether I appreciate it or it’s driving me nuts.” Welch shifted slightly and huffed a frustrated sounding breath. “But I’m glad you did.” 

“Give him a break, Zeren.” Warritt broke in, stepping out of the tent. The old Viper was smiling as he said it. “Not like you handle being stuck recuperating any better.”

It was Zeren’s turn to wince. “Alright, fair point, I’m terrible at sitting still like that.” He waved a hand through the air at Welch. “Just… take it easy, alright?”

“I am, Zeren. I am. Besides, someone has to sit here and yell at Nhelan when he  _ keeps crossing his feet on that parry!”  _ The last part Welch fairly barked across the flat space to where two of the boys, Nhelan and Mino, were working through a set of longknife drills.To the boy’s credit, Welch’s shout failed to knock him off his rhythm and he did seem to be paying much closer attention now that every one of the full Vipers was watching him closely. 

Behind them, Onnos dropped his own crate and pack by the tent. Warritt made a face. 

“Damn.” The old Viper swore half in amazement “They’ve  _ still  _ got that stink in them.”

“Yep.” Zeren admitted he’d been certain that the items were authentic as soon as he’d smelled them. The tradesmaster had been as disturbed by that as almost anything else Zeren had done or said. 

“Ahh, cadaverine. Smells like home.” Onnos chuckled darkly.

It was Welch’s turn to snicker somewhat nastily. “Nah. Not enough fear or fresh blood in it.” 

If the brief laugh they all shared was darker than a moonless night in a swamp, well,  _ who would really blame us? _

All three boys were looking back across the open space with expressions somewhere between confusion and concern on their faces. 

“Did I tell you to stop?” Welch called. Nhelan and Mino immediately moved back to their round. Zeren recognized the drill. Inside a circle scratched in the dry soil, Mino was on the defensive. Nhelan was working the clock around him, moving in and out of range always at different angles. No direct approach was possible, and only a retreat on an angle would keep him from earning some fresh bruises. It was simple, basic practice and every single one of them still used it.  _ Foundations are called that for a reason. _

“Should toss the two of you in that circle next. The hell was it Kolgrim was always saying-”

“An amatuer practices until he gets it right” Warritt started and paused.

“A professional practices until he can’t get it wrong.” Zeren finished. “Yes, Warritt, we should in fact take it upon ourselves to show these boys how it’s done.” He was grinning openly. 

“Walk it off, boys.” Welch called. Nhelan and Mino stopped, eyeing the Vipers curiously, but ceded the space and the blunted training fangs. “Zeren, take center first. Onnos, outside.” 

Zeren nodded, took the pair of matched blades from Mino and settled into a relaxed guard to wait. Strangely enough, here in training was one place Zeren knew he could trust Onnos completely. He watched the smaller, leaner Witcher saunter into position. They exchanged a brief nod, and began. 

Onnos held nothing back and for that Zeren thanked him. Sincerely. No one, absolutely no one benefited from training gently. Onnos’ footwork was exceptional, even by their standards, and he was quick and low and confident. He was a dangerous opponent. 

Onnos came into range at a sharp angle, forcing Zeren to pivot to catch his incoming strike. No longer lined up to strike back effectively, he had to settle for keeping the blade clear and waiting for his next opportunity as the smaller Witcher stepped back out of the circle. Zeren settled again as his opponent contemplated his next series of steps. Precision, rather than speed was the real objective here, though Onnos possessed both. He stepped in at the same angle but long training and the angle of Onnos’ rear foot gave Zeren the warning he needed to bring his rear hand forward to block the stabbing attack. Better balanced, he took advantage of the momentary gap in Onnos’ guard to aim a ruthless stab of his own for the other Witcher’s torso. A desperate pivot and fold through his hip took Onnos back out of range just in time. 

Welch’s barking laugh filtered across the space. “You’d’ve deserved it, Onnos, your whole core was open there.”

Onnos’ golden eyes narrowed briefly. 

Zeren waited. 

Onnos had a faster pivot than anyone else Zeren had ever met, and he used it. Appearing to enter the circle at a shallower angle than before, Onnos dropped his weight to one low step and spun toward Zeren, bringing his blades tight to his body and ending the inhuman maneuver just behind Zeren’s forward leg and hip. His overhand block was a desperate one and he knew it but the recoil gave him the speed he needed to catch Onnos behind his own swing and finally connect with the other Viper. It didn’t save him from the now rear blade in Onnos’ other hand catching him hard across his ribs. 

“Mutual.” Welch called. “Re-set. Onnos take center.”

Zeren prowled the outside of the circle, shifting the dull practice blades in his hands. More than a few of the people in the camp had found places to watch but Zeren ignored them. He knew that he absolutely did not have Onnos’ speed, but he had reach and weight on the other Viper. He settled on a more direct approach. 

Zeren lunged low into the circle at an oblique angle to Onnos’ rear hand, currently in a mid guard. Relying on his greater weight, Zeren caught and pinned the blade, bringing his rear hand to the fore to slash toward the other Viper’s now unprotected shoulder. Onnos twisted away but Zeren hadn’t left him room to set up any kind of counter attack. He retreated quickly beyond the line in the dirt to make his next attempt, ignoring the sweat running down his face at the exertion in the heat. He really did prefer to work by night in the desert.

He tried again at a sharper angle, and got a similar result. He could pin Onnos’ blades but couldn’t get to him fast enough to connect. Frustration threatened and Zeren crushed it ruthlessly. With a blade in his hand, no emotion could disturb his mind. It wasn’t permitted. 

On his third attempt, now on the opposite side of the circle from where he had started, Zeren stepped in and to an almost dangerously wide stance. He caught Onnos’ striking blade on his forward blade and kept moving, shifting fully onto his forward leg and pulling himself not into a true pivot but a long backstep on a hard angle. The weight shift was rapid, difficult, and not particularly useful except against another highly trained opponent who simply wouldn’t expect something so reckless. For an instant, he and Onnos were back to back in the circle. Onnos reacted quickly and moved to intercept Zeren’s landing. Zeren, too close to effectively use the blade, blocked Onnos’ forearm with his own and continued the turn into the other Viper’s now tied up side, training blade connecting solidly with his abdomen. 

“Zeren’s!” Welch called. “Switch again.”

Welch put them through several more rounds, each managing to score only rarely on the other. Despite their different physical advantages, they were very closely matched. Zeren knew they were a dangerous sort of pleasure to watch, all speed and deadly grace that no human could match. For a little while, he could let himself think of nothing but the blades in his hands, and the deadly rehearsal in the clearing. 

In its own way, it was a relief. 

When Welch called the session, Zeren had to admit he felt better. Tired, dehydrated, bruised, and sore, but better. Much of the tension had bled out of Onnos’ frame over the course of the practice.  _ Nothing like some good old fashioned exhaustion to work out the stress. _

If the wide, watching eyes were any indication, they had made a good show of it. As Zeren retreated to find water and a remarkably efficient scrub he heard Warritt telling the boys to be back in the evening to go over a few things before he turned them loose for the heat of the afternoon. With the distraction of the training no longer keeping his mind quiet, Zeren’s worries came roaring back to demand his attention. 

Welch was still hurt. The boys were good, excellent even, but they were walking into an unknown situation. Warritt’s knowledge and experience was soothing a lot of his nervousness about returning and no matter how he looked at it, Zeren knew it was time. He couldn’t help but wish for a simpler way forward. All he wanted was the clarity that came with a blade in each hand, and a clear target in front of him, where he could silence his too many thoughts in the cold and deadly dance. 


	7. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares and Leavetaking- Nothing worth doing is ever easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares, traumatic memories, and Warritt being actually very awesome up ahead.

_1245, approximately, the catacombs below Gorthur Gvaed, the night of screams_

The night was falling to pieces around him the darkness in the deep tunnels was filled with the muffled sound of distant screaming and the roar of flames. Shattering crashes from falling stones rattled the earthen walls and shook dust into Zeren's eyes.

He'd been too late. He’d been too late to stop the attack, too late to find the mages or the captains or even the damned supply wagons in time. Too late to prevent the great stone viper guarding the barbican from losing his head. The loss of the murder holes at the gate was more strategicially damaging but Zeren couldn’t help but regard the metaphorical death of the great Viper as the most terrible of omens. 

And he didn’t even believe in omens. 

The battalion rolled over the narrow stone bridges over the reeking chasm around the keep and straight into the maze of the keep itself without stopping at any of the traps. Or rather, they did not seem to care that they left bodies behind at every trap. Any loss seemed worth the goal of eradicating Gorthur Gvaed. 

The keep had been mostly empty. A school did not make a habit of taking political assassination contracts without also keeping an ear to the political landscape. Most who could go, had. Zeren and a few others had been foolish enough to come back. 

The tunnel rocked with the force of another falling section of wall and Zeren pulled the two boys close to protect them. He couldn’t count on his  _ quen _ to shield all of them. The main group had split as the walls between the dorms had cracked and shifted. Zeren knew others had gotten away, but how many had gotten out? Had any? As far as he could prove, these two were all he had. 

Tiny little Lath, bright blue eyes wide with fear in his pale face, looked up at Zeren in near panic. He’d simply grabbed the ones he could reach, shouting to the others to take the back way. He knew other Vipers were outside. He had to trust them to do what they could, just as he was, just as any of them should. 

Zeren pulled the two boys down the bolt hole with him, doing all he could to focus on his goal with the screams in the distance and the stench of smoke and blood and bile in the air. Fortunately the boys were not new to the keep and were able to hold close to him. The bolt hole they were in ran straight to an outer wall halfway down the chasm wall. The climb back out of the stench would be difficult, but it was unlikely to draw much attention. They were nearly there. 

There was someone ahead of him. The faint glow of a uniquely adapted sign illuminated a horrifically scarred face, head cocked to track the sound of roaring fire far away. 

“Warritt?!” Zeren shouted down the tunnel. He couldn’t believe his luck. If anyone knew their way around these deep tunnels, it was Warritt. There was another small figure tucked tight against Warritt’s side, another of the boys making a run for survival. 

“Zeren? You must have been closer to the keep than we thought. We’re almost there. Who’s with you?”

“Lath and Mino, I heard other boys heading out toward the southern bolt hole but I couldn’t get to them.”

“They’ve got a shot. I heard Auckes out that way.”

Zeren breathed a small sigh of relief. Auckes probably meant Serritt too and between the two of them there wasn’t much they couldn’t deal with. The boys had a chance. But he still had to get his own out. He followed close to Warritt toward escape and hope. 

The hole entrance was unguarded. They were going to make it. Warritt pulled the boy out behind him and started up the trail without any hesitation. Only a few steps behind, Zeren barely made it through as the entire section of mountainside started to slip. 

The ragged stone had taken one hit too many and the bolt hole was collapsing, tunnel mouth closing like some hungry beast in the screaming dark. Zeren made it, dragging Lath with him, landed on the trail, and reached Warritt. There was another Witcher on the path outside. He looked like he’d only just arrived and for a moment Zeren felt his hope rise, but it wasn't Desten. It was someone else. 

“Onnos, take the boys, the tunnel is collapsing!” Warritt didn’t wait for acknowledgement as the other Witcher- Onnos- took the boys by the arms and pulled them up and to safety higher up the shattering path. 

Zeren looked back. Mino hadn’t made it. The older boy was still in the bolt hole. 

He hadn’t been able to get to the rest of the boys in the dorm in time. Damn if he was going to leave this one behind. Ignoring Warritt’s shouts and Onnos’ wordless cry of shock. Zeren turned back, refusing to allow himself to think about it, and clawed his way back into the bolt hole. 

Heaving dirt and stone out of the way as best he could, Zeren hunted for his target. He could still hear the boy’s frantic breathing, still smell fresh blood. Not much of it, not yet. 

“Mino, can you move?”

“Aye, just some scrapes. I dodged most of it.”

“Good. Climb the pile. I’m trying to get to you.”

Zeren could hear the boy moving, hear stone and dirt sliding as he scrambled to the top near the roof of the bolt hole. He almost had a big enough gap cleared. Zeren’s hands were torn and bloody, nails shredded and his arms and shoulders were burning from exertion. He felt like he was dragging every motion through water, fighting for every breath. Something overhead was shifting again. 

Mino’s shaggy dark head came into view, and he reached through. Zeren grabbed the boy’s arm and pulled him through. They tumbled down the stone pile and hit the floor of the bolt hole running flat out. Every step seemed far too slow. The ragged remains of the entrance seemed to grow further and further away with each stride. The roar of shifting dirt and stone overhead overwhelmed Zeren’s hearing. He couldn’t move any faster. He was pulling the boy, fighting for each step as the tunnel mouth slipped further and further away. 

The night kept screaming. 

No, wait. 

He was screaming. 

***

_ An oasis near the edge of the Korath Desert, in sight of the foothills of the Tir Tochair _

“Zeren. Zeren! Wake up, man. All the way. Hey. Zeren.” He knew that voice. Warritt’s voice. Warritt’s voice in the dark, like that night had been, the falling stone again-

“Zeren! Zeren, listen to me.”

He tried, he did, but the stone was still falling and Mino was still in the tunnel and-

“Look around, Zeren. Tell me what you see. Five things. Come on. Do it. Tell me things you can see.”

Confusion. He looked, expecting to see stone. “A tent wall?” He was surprised. Shouldn’t it be stone? 

“Keep going. What do you see.” Warritt’s voice was calm as he coaxed Zeren to answer. 

“The lantern….. A pole…. A cushion…” Zeren trailed off and Warritt gently prodded him for another item “the crates.”

“Hmm. That might have done it. Four things now, Zeren, four you can feel. Tell me.”

Zeren could feel himself starting to focus. He did as Warritt asked. “The blanket. The pallet. That knife grip.” Zeren paused, starting to come back to himself, and ran his shaking hand through his sleep tangled hair. “Knots in my hair.”

“Good. Good, Zeren. Keep going I think you know what’s happening now but you need to finish. Three you can hear.” Warritt’s voice was gentle but insistent. 

“The wind. A horse stomped. Heartbeats.”

“Almost done. Two you can smell.”

“Horses again. And tears.” Zeren glanced across the tent. 

“One you can taste. Gotta finish.” 

“Do nightmares have a taste?”

“In this case, sure.” Warritt gave him a wan smile, twisting his scarred face. “Welcome back. Catch your breath.”

“Thanks. I… I’m sorry for waking you up.”

“Don’t apologize, Zeren. We all have them.” Warritt’s voice was gentle in the darkness of the tent. “The tunnel again?”

“Yeah.”

Across the tent, Mino whimpered. He was awake too. Zeren looked meaningfully at Warritt. He was back to himself, but Mino was struggling with the same memory, and the guilt of seeing Zeren struggle with it. Warritt nodded, sensing the movement if not the expression, and moved to the other side of the tent. Zeren tuned the low conversation out. 

He hadn’t dreamed about that night in a long time. Going back into the tunnel had, at the time, seemed like the only acceptable way forward. He’d never have been able to live with himself if he had not gone back. Barely escaping the collapse of the rest of the tunnel with Mino dragged in tow had given him nightmares that were almost as hard to live with. Even the memory of reuniting with Desten in the mountains the next evening, he'd not even been a day behind, racing to save what he could, couldn't blot out the horror of going back into that tunnel.

Warritt had been the one keeping meditative watch that night, but Zeren knew there was no point trying to go back to sleep. 

He watched the predawn light creep across the canvas wall as Mino finally calmed and went back to sleep and Warritt settled back into meditation. Welch and Onnos had definitely woken but, thankfully, had said nothing and had let themselves fall back to sleep under Warritt’s watch. 

Zeren watched the light change, finding it a better view than the memories screaming inside his skull. 

He gave up and went outside for his morning training. 

Mino followed. 

***

Fan and Zeren both declared Welch fit to travel later that day. The older Viper didn’t even bother to hide his grin. 

“Bout time. Can’t imagine sitting still this long has been good for anyone.” He let out a gruff laugh. ”There’s enough to plan. We need to be all back at our cave to get it all together.”

“Aye, and we’ve more to carry.” Zeren sent Welch a grin that was all teeth. 

“Ah, ah, I’m still recovering, dammit.”

“Suuuure you are.”

“Warritt, help.”

Warritt only laughed and kept adjusting the newly acquired armor to fit Mino better. Nhelan had already been outfitted and Lath, still, was too slim for the pieces Zeren had wheedled from the trademaster. 

The rest of the packs were soon readied and divvied out. Around the Witchers, the tribe was striking camp as well. No one stayed still in the desert for very long. 

There was one person Zeren had to see. 

He found Talvor ordering the last of his household’s gear into readiness. The chief turned to him and smiled openly, greeting him as an equal and a friend. Zeren let himself smile. He was going to miss Talvor. At a gesture, he followed the other man slightly away from the gathering tribe. 

Golden eyes met dark, and to Zeren’s surprise, were understood. 

“I know that you must return to your land and your people, Fallen Star, to find as many as yet live.” Talvor’s smile was real, as was the sorrow within it. “And I think I will probably not see you again in this life.”

Zeren didn’t quite know what to say. Odds were low but saying so out loud seemed so very final. “No, Chief,” he finally said, “it is… not likely.”

“Then I am so very thankful to have known you, Zeren.” Talvor said. 

“And I you, Talvor.” For all his training, Zeren couldn’t quite keep the emotion out of his voice. Talvor had been something reliable in the shifting desert. 

But the Path moved ever forward, and Zeren had no choice but to follow it. 

The Chief pulled him into a familiar embrace. Zeren let himself be hugged tightly, even hugged the other man back though he’d not likely ever admit it. Talvor stepped back, hands still clasped on Zeren’s arms. 

“Zeren, I know you wear the title reluctantly, but carry it with you. Few men have ever truly deserved it but I believe you do. And when you do not trust your own light, trust Warritt. He sees more clearly than most, and he chooses to follow you. Forgive me my poetry, Zeren, but they need their guiding star, and you burn so brightly.” 

“I-'' The Viper stopped. He didn’t know quite what to say. 

“Zeren…” Talvor’s grip tightened, “I know well that your path is not a safe one. The truth of that is carved on the skin of every Viper here. But be safe, as much as you can. You have much yet to bring this world. Take care, my friend, of yourself as well as your Witchers.”

“I will, Talvor.” Zeren found that he meant it, utterly and completely. “I will.”

As the tribe and the Vipers left the oasis, Zeren found himself looking back and contemplating. That it was time, none of them could deny. He turned to Warritt. 

“Remember that quote of old Evil-Eye’s? Deception has its place in this world…”

“But never lie to yourself,” Warritt finished. “I heard him say it often enough. Why bring it up now?”

“I am…. “ Zeren paused. He looked back at the oasis behind them, and the backs of the rest of his ragged nest of Vipers well ahead of them. “I am afraid.” 

“Is that fear going to stop you?”

“No. It’s the right path to take.”

“You’ve taken the right path before, at terrible and far more immediate risk.”

“I know. I remember. But I’m still afraid.”

Warritt smiled. “I know. They say that they strip us of our emotions but we know the truth. They teach us to ignore them. Same result I guess. There’s nothing wrong with being afraid, Zeren. The only problem comes from letting that fear rule you.”

Zeren thought on it for a while as they slipped and struggled across shattered stone and lifeless track. This part of the desert was particularly inhospitable. After a time, Warritt spoke again.

“You’ve been in the dark for a long time, Zeren. We all have. But that’s where we learn. We build from here. We’ll find our light again.”


	8. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feral boys are growing up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a short one, but it didn't work rolled into the next one. Just means the next one will be edited and up faster. Remember, I have notes through to the end and am drafting 3 to 4 chapters ahead of what is posted. There is NO schedule here, but I do intend to finish it.

_ Edge of the Korath Desert, foothills of the Tir Tochair  _

It should have been a brutally hot but boring trip back, with only the sun and wind and slipping stones to deal with. But as the evening winds began to blow and their path took them into the reaching shadows of the mountains, all sense of boredom went flying merrily to hell.

Warritt heard it first. 

“From the left!” came the warning. Zeren focused his own senses on the cooler shadow and after a moment he heard it as well- the faint scrabbling of something with too many legs coming toward them across the ragged stone. In eerie unison each figure on the side of the desert scree dropped their packs and drew their weapons. The glow of Warritt’s unique sign was almost invisible in the desert light when he spoke again. “Scorpion.”

Zeren swore, colorfully. They’d been out of ranogrim for months, and the beasts weren’t susceptible to much other than the toxic oil designed specifically to weaken large insect type monsters. They’d have to hack it to death, there wouldn’t be any running from it. 

The moment the pony-sized creature skittered into view, Warritt released his modified  _ supirre  _ and flung a finely targeted  _ igni  _ directly into the beast’s face before picking up the other sign again. Zeren could only admire that kind of skill. His own signs were, well, at least he was good with a blade. It didn’t deter the creature much, but it allowed the rest of them to get close enough to strike. 

Vaguely aware that he would have rather had the weight and reach of a longsword for this fight, Zeren took point and went for the creature’s momentarily unguarded side. It was trying to scrub soot and pain out of its too many eyes and didn’t focus on the incoming Witcher in time. First strike went to Zeren, but when he saw just how little damage he’d done to the heavy chitin armor he knew he was in for a long fight. 

Zeren heard more than saw Onnos hit the beast from the other side, bearing hard against the creature’s side and moving as he had for a strike at the deadly stinger. Anything to reduce the risk the beast presented. He leaped back to avoid being in the way of Onnos’ better angled strike and wound up caught on a swinging pincer and thrown to the ground. Hard. 

Zeren came up snarling. 

Onnos had damaged the stinger and was stepping out and around as the giant scorpion swung toward its attacker. With it distracted, Zeren lunged forward again burying both longknives into the same crack in the chitin he’d made before. The creature hissed in what must have been agony as he pulled both fangs free with a vicious twist and threw himself back and away to dodge the incoming sting. The boys behind him didn’t give the scorpion a chance to recover its balance while Zeren dodged. 

Tiny Lath streaked past Zeren’s left side, leaped onto one of the giant scorpion’s clambering legs, and ducked inside the stinger’s range of motion to finish the cut Onnos had begun. The boy landed lightly next to the severed stinger and spun back to face the now truly enraged beast. Zeren shoved the shock and pride down below the fighting calm to deal with later. 

The beast spun, legs clattering on the loose stone, flinging ichor through the air as it hissed madly at what it had surely expected to be an easy meal. With the deadly stinger no longer a concern, the beast had become easier to approach. Zeren watched as the slender boy vaulted back onto the giant scorpion, landing -harder this time- fangs first into a slim gap between the armored plates. The scorpion screeched and bucked madly, sending Lath flying. He rolled the landing as Zeren had so painstakingly taught him and came right up to his feet. 

As the creature bucked, Onnos had started moving. He’d found a gap in the scorpion’s armor just behind the crushing pincer and he wasted no time sinking a rapid series of short stabs into the joint. It worked, the pincer arm now dragged heavily on the rough ground and Zeren knew this fight was as good as over. As the giant scorpion tried again to pivot toward its most recent attacker Zeren hit it from the other side, repeating Onnos’ extremely effective tactic to take the other pincer arm out of action. Legs scrabbling uselessly, it screeched in shock and pain until Zeren leaped atop the creature to finally drive both fangs into the back of its ugly head. The giant scorpion collapsed onto the torn ground. Two Vipers and a boy caught their breath. 

Welch applauded. Warritt laughed. 

“Well  _ done  _ my boy.” Warritt said, clapping his hands onto Lath’s narrow shoulders. “Well done indeed. Good timing, great landing. And fitting you should find your first blood out here in the desert, too.”

Lath glanced around him as Warritt pulled back again, blue eyes bright with the adrenaline of the fight. He seemed as surprised as he was pleased. “Thanks, Warritt.” he said softly. 

Zeren watched as Welch and Onnos congratulated the boy in turn.  _ Only just fourteen and took the stinger off a giant scorpion in the edge of the Korath. Boy would have made a damned good Witcher.  _ Movement at his side caught his attention. Mino handed him a scrap of rag to clean the ichor off his blades. He’d been as ready to fight as any of the rest of them, though in fairness giant scorpions weren’t all that big, really, and there was only room for so many people to attack them at once. And if Zeren knew Mino at all, the youth had chosen very deliberately to let Lath have his chance at a monster. 

“Thanks, Mino.” Zeren smiled gratefully “Good that he gets his chance at a real fight before we run into anything really nasty, huh?”

“Yeah it worked out real nice.” Mino grinned. He’d been right. Boy was growing into a real menace and Zeren couldn’t be more proud. 

Still smiling, Zeren turned and tossed the rag to Lath once his own knives were free of ichor. “Nicely done, Lath.” The boy positively beamed. He caught the rag and went to work. Zeren went back to the carcass where Warritt and Welch were discussing some new idea. 

“Well of course you can turn it into something fun and dangerous, it’s venom” Warritt was saying. “I’m just not sure it’s worth the time.”

“We don’t have a lot of what we’re used to having out here.” Welch countered. “It wouldn’t take me long to render it into a more stable form for transport at least. It’s not that different from the captive venom we used to use.”

“I hated that room.” Zeren said as he walked up. “The snakes were fascinating but the spiders and scorpions have too many legs.” 

“And yet you slaughter endrega and arachas without second thought.”

“Well yes that’s because I’m killing the thing with too damn many legs.”

Warritt huffed out a laugh in response. “Alright fair enough. What do you think then? Try for a batch of poison for the blades or let it go?”

Zeren turned to Welch. “How fast can we turn it if we’re both working on it?”

“‘Bout a day, but it’ll take the whole day, mind.” 

“Fair enough. Bring it. We don’t have anything else, and I don’t want to go back to civilization without a few tricks available.” Warritt and Welch both nodded, and Welch set to cutting the venom filled barb free. 

***

Their cavern was slightly crowded with all of the Vipers, all of the boys, and the small cobbled together setup for rendering the giant scorpion’s poison into a stable grease for blades. The goat tallow simply wasn’t as good for the job. But Welch was making do and Zeren was absorbing every bit of it. It wouldn’t do for everything but it would be a handy advantage against a variety of likely very human problems. 

Once the system was running to slowly melt the different substances into one another and cook them down gently, it required little effort to maintain so Zeren turned to packing. Some gear had been stashed when they’d first settled on the cavern and needed to be cleaned and repacked for travel- mostly climbing gear for the mountains. Zeren sorted equipment, rations, weapons, clothing, and more with a ruthless eye. 

The memories attached to each, he would deal with another time. 

Cleaning and preparing for travel took most of the day while the vile venomous concoction simmered along. Zeren could smell the nerves in the cave, some of them his own. Time to go and ready to go didn’t necessarily mean the same thing. As soon as the evening began to cool, Zeren sent the boys outside to work off some of the nervous energy in practice. He should probably have done the same for himself. 

By the time they had finished everything else and were waiting for the foul sludge to cool enough to store, the boys returned with a brace of desert hares. Warritt set them roasting while Zeren and Welch packed up the hodgepodge of pans, flasks, and tubing once it was clean. There was nothing left but to rest and, in the morning, finally leave the desert behind. 

Zeren was quiet as he worked on his portion of dinner. He hadn’t wanted to come to the desert, but they’d found themselves harried on every side until no other path seemed remotely survivable. The desert had been brutal to them. It had taken years, scars,  _ Desten.  _

Now he found himself strangely reluctant to leave it. There was beauty here, and a strange sort of, well he wouldn’t call it peace. Serenity, perhaps, to the way life moved. There were none of the masks, politics, or pitfalls of the so-called civilization on the other side of the mountains. Zeren found that the harshness of the desert, and the hard but honest people that it bred, were to him more familiar and more welcoming than any of the trappings of the old world he’d left behind. 

No, he was not eager to return. 

The others turned one by one to sleep. Zeren took watch for the night. He wanted, as much pain as this desert had brought him, to spend one more night beneath its stars. 


	9. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Which roads are stranger, the ones through strange land or the ones through strange thoughts?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes a brief POV shift which will be happening again at several points for storytelling reasons. 
> 
> You may note that the tags will be expanding dramatically. There is a whole second arc to this story that will finally bring us into the realm of familiar characters. Don't hold your breath. It's going to be a while. Who knew that making and breaking a Viper would take so many words?

_ A cavern in the Korath Desert, foothills of the Tir Tochair _

While the last stars still glittered coldy in the desert sky, Zeren roused himself and the others to prepare to set off. Neither night nor day were friends of travelers in the desert, and they had some of the steepest of the foothills between them and the mountains that sheltered the broken keep. 

He found most of them already awake. He couldn’t really blame them. 

They ate a cold breakfast, picked up their packs, and left. It seemed to Zeren far too simple a morning for such a significant change. If each of them, himself perhaps most of all, kept pausing on each hill to look back at the inhospitable swath of the Korath Desert that had been their safe haven these last few years, well, he couldn’t really blame them for that either. 

They had sought safety from the roaming squadrons of soldiers, bent on carrying out their orders to destroy the Witchers of Gorthur Gvaed. Harried from every side, desperate flight had brought them back down on the far side of the mighty Tir Tochair and into the shifting sands. Zeren felt like he was leaving a part of himself in that desert. 

In a way, he was; Desten would never leave that desert. 

With every step down the wind-scoured track, Zeren had to fight the feeling that he was leaving his lover behind. He knew the feeling wasn’t rational, knew Desten had been dead almost two years. But the feeling persisted. He had to take the boys back. He had to see what remained of the keep. He had a path to walk, monsters to kill, the hunt to study as he could, and a dangerous living to eke from the violent edges of society. But Zeren was leaving what remained of his heart in the sand behind him. 

He tried not to think about it. 

He failed. 

The others seemed to pick up on his mood and left him more or less to himself for the first morning, offering a share of food and water when they broke to wait out the heat under shade cloths. Zeren, not really paying attention to what he was doing, chose a corner away from the others. He didn’t notice when Mino settled in nearly next to him. He started to growl, not wanting anyone at all near him while his thoughts were so unsettled, while he was questioning everything and wishing that anything at all had gone differently. 

But it was Mino. 

Mino who learned to laugh and swear and fight and cook poisons from Zeren. Mino who grew under Zeren’s watchful gaze from undersized child to hard eyed youth in the desert that preserved them. Mino, who for one long minute years ago had been terrified that he would die with Zeren’s escape the last thing he ever saw, until Zeren came back for him. 

Zeren felt the growl die in his throat. 

Welch and Warritt were watching nervously. They knew exactly how unsettled Zeren was. Neither quite seemed to want to interfere. After a long moment, they relaxed, and the tension under the shade cloth eased. Suddenly exhausted, he settled into the scant comfort the cloth provided and let himself doze. 

The ragged nest took turns dozing and watching during the heat of the day, and when the evening winds began to blow they shared out rations, packed up the shade cloths, and kept moving. Once a path had been chosen, their collective dedication to it seemed to take on a force and focus all its own. Zeren felt as though he was being pulled along with the current, caught in the flow that he himself had finally unleashed. He was powerless against it and the sensation of being swept along had him stumbling and scrabbling for purchase. 

All he could reach were memories. He shoved them down, denying them any real standing in his mind. The track required watching. The boys required teaching. The path forward required planning. There was no room for wallowing in his own misery. 

When chill darkness finally fell and the desert stars peered down on their small camp in the foothills, Zeren was no closer to understanding how to navigate the currents he was caught in than he had been when they set out. Short of returning to Gorthur Gvaed, he had no real plan. He didn’t like not having a plan. He liked even less not knowing what they were walking into. 

Zeren looked around in the flickering light of the small fire, each of them gathered close for warmth and the simple sense of being close. Many years on the Path had inured him to loneliness and yet the thought of facing this journey back alone filled Zeren with a sense of dread. He had faced numerous monsters- beast shaped and otherwise- yet the thought of facing those broken walls with no one nearby who might understand was more than he cared to contemplate. 

The night wore on, the stars wheeled overhead, and Zeren’s mind refused to be quieted. He took watch that night, seeking if not true peace at least the enforced stillness of meditation. The cold, clear starlight faded to the warm light of daybreak and Zeren roused himself to stretch and train. He took the watch the next night. And the next. And the next. 

Through the foothills the pattern continued. They pushed every mile by dawn and dusk, waiting out the heat under meager shade and huddled together against the bitter night. The world around them changed so slowly that Zeren was not entirely sure at what point they finally left the desert behind. He looked up one morning and realized that there were traces of moss along the rocks. 

He had no name for the profound sensation that washed through him. It left him feeling utterly unbalanced, profoundly alone, and shaken to his core. The last few days had left the brilliant contrasts of desert light and darkness behind, and left only bitter memories. Zeren did not rouse the others early that morning. He couldn’t. Instead he walked away from the camp, staggering under the conflicting pressures. Away from the others, alone in the dawn, Zeren fell to his knees, pressed his trembling hand against the soft green moss, and finally let himself begin to grieve. 

***

_ Mino _

Even the air felt different.

His memories of the panicked flight through the mountains and down into the desert were fragmented by time and fear, but he remembered the feeling in the air. Sure, it rained in the desert once in a while, and the transformation afterward was stunning beyond words, but not like what he could smell in the air right now. There was a storm rumbling through the mountains, and Mino could feel it coming. 

It had everyone on edge, Onnos was snapping worse than usual at Lath and Nhelan as they practiced. Warritt seemed oddly tense as he ambled a patrol around their chosen camp. Welch’s eyes kept flicking from the clouds, to Warritt, to the boys, and back to the clouds. And Zeren…. Mino felt an unaccustomed twist of anxiety in his gut when he thought about the big Viper. Zeren was not ok, and Mino was at a loss. 

Mino scrubbed a hand over his face and through his shaggy dark hair. Zeren hadn’t seemed himself since the fight with Onnos at the oasis, and he was sinking deeper. Mino had watched in tense silence as Zeren had stated flatly that he was going to try hunting to stretch their rations and strode soundlessly from the small camp. They had all just watched him go, Onnos with a sneer, Welch and Warritt with obvious concern. Well, obvious if you were used to reading Warritt’s scarred face. He was worried, and that worried Mino. 

_ Information first, isn’t that what Zeren’s always telling me?  _ Mino dragged the cleaning he was working on over to the one Viper not immediately engaged in other work. 

“What’s eating you, boy?” Welch asked, not unkindly. 

“I’m not entirely sure where to start.” Mino had to admit. He inspected the belt and knife sheath he was working on closely. The stitching was sound, it just needed a thorough scrub. He let his hands carry him through the familiar task while his thoughts tumbled around one another in his head. 

“Grab whatever’s on top of the pile.” Welch suggested. “We’ll go from there.”

Well, no point in holding back with an invitation like that. “Zeren’s not ok, and you’re worried, and that worries me.” Mino let all the words tumble out in a rush. “And,” here he paused, uncertain, “and I don’t know what to do.”

For a moment Welch said nothing. The scarred old Witcher ran a rough hand through shaggy hair that was showing gray. “Well if you’re gonna tackle a question might as well go right for a big one.” Mino huffed. Welch considered. Then, “No, Mino, Zeren isn’t ok. But I think he will be. This is a very hard road for him right now. He left a lot behind in that desert, and he’s not quite done saying goodbye to it all.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Erm.” Welch looked uncomfortable for a moment. “You didn’t know Desten for very long but, you know he and Zeren were… close.”

“They were lovers.” Mino stated. It hadn’t exactly been a secret. 

“Oh good. Least I don’t have to explain that. Would’ve got them killed in some places but we’ve always favored function over most other concerns.” Welch shifted and his voice took on a darkly serious tone. “This Path, it just takes from you. Takes and takes, chips away until there’s not enough of you left to keep going, and then it takes you too. And yet, we keep traveling those familiar roads. How many of us go back and visit the places where the people we cared about died, over and over again? It keeps them with us, in a way.”

Mino began to understand. “And Zeren… he’ll never be able to visit that place again. He won’t be keeping Desten with him.” 

“That’s how he’s feelin’ about it. It’s not really true, of course. They were,” Welch chuckled, “They were a force of nature, they were. Either of them fought like a demon and together they were three demons.” 

“And he lost him, in the desert. His… partner.”

“Aye that’s a good word for them. Zeren’s not the type to accept anything less. And yes. Left a part of himself back there, I think. He’ll heal. We do. But it won’t be easy.”

Mino looked up from his scrubbing, dark hair falling across his eyes. A question had occurred to him that almost hurt. “It cost him so much to save us,” his voice broke to a whisper, “were we worth it?”

Welch turned to face him fully, placing a hardened hand on top of Mino’s work and dragging the boy’s full attention to the older Witcher. “You listen. As hard and painful and fucking miserable as life in that keep was and as just fucking ugly as training was for all of us, it’s easy to think that way. You were still in shock yourself the night we met but I think you remember part of it.” Welch paused for a moment, considering. “Zeren is… a cold man, in many ways. He’s had to be. We all are, it’s what they make us, and what they had every intention of making you. But he never hesitated at a chance to save even one of you. Not a single one of us regrets saving you boys. Not Warritt, not Onnos, and absolutely not Zeren. We paint ourselves in blood for coin, but we don’t harm our own and we don’t leave our own behind.”

Mino shivered at the force behind the softly spoken words. His memories of that night were fragmented but those of the tunnel were clear as crystal. He could only whisper. “He came back for me.”

“And he does not regret it. He’s a cold man, and a hurting one, but he does not regret it. Trust me.”

Mino thought it over for a time while he worked through the pile of things to be cleaned. It was easier to think when his hands were busy. Something about the nervous energy of youth, according to Warrit. Finally he figured out the next question. “What can I do to help?”

Welch’s answering sigh and smile were almost disbelieving. “He’s got to work through it. Give him time. Be as patient as a boy your age can be with your grumpy elders. Just be there. He’s keeping us together but he needs us too.”

“I thought Witchers were supposed to be lone hunters.”

“We do work that way but if that were strictly true would we all keep coming back home?”

The youth had no answer. He let his hands, methodically working through the pile, speak for him. 

“Exactly.” Welch finally said. “Just give him time, Mino. He’ll come around.”

They sat in silence until Mino had finished the last of the leather that needed attention. The sun was sinking behind the clouds into the side of the mountain when Welch finally looked directly at a gap in the brush. 

Zeren slipped back into camp, silent as thought, a couple of rabbits slung over an arm. There was still tension in his broad shoulders, but for once his concern seemed to be more about their immediate surroundings than whatever monsters he was fighting in his own head. The blonde Viper cast golden eyes to the stormclouds gathering before commenting idly, “Haven’t seen one of these in a while.” 

“Nope.” Mino slid immediately into the space at Zeren’s side, took the rabbits, and carried them over to start preparing them. The first rumble of thunder was no louder than the worries still tumbling around inside the youth’s skull, but it seemed a little more bearable with Zeren back from his hunt. 

He’d have to trust Welch. The old Viper knew better than just about any of them,  _ except Warrit maybe. And he’s so busy keeping Lath and Nhelan and Onnos in line.  _ Mino hid a flicker of tension in the process of butchering the rabbit. Lath and Nhelan he knew how to deal with. He’d known them for as long as he could remember and longer than they could remember. Onnos made him nervous and not only because of the way he was constantly goading Zeren. Mino always felt that he somehow failed to measure up to Onnos’ standards.  _ One problem at a time, like Zeren says. _

Rabbits first. Storm second. Other monsters as they appeared. 


	10. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Through the lens of memory...

_ 1245, approximately, two nights after the Night of Screams and the fall of Gorthur Gvaed _

The smell of blood on the breeze was the first warning. Zeren snapped a fist up into the air and the ragged party froze. He stretched his senses across the forested slope, searching. Beside him, Desten did the same. They had met up again only the previous night, one night after the fire and screaming and falling-  _ no, we are not thinking about that right now.  _ Desten had been only a day behind Zeren in the race to Gorthur Gvaed, and luck and an errant breeze had brought them together during the first mad day of flight. 

Zeren caught the scent of blood again, stronger, and laced with bile and tears. Whatever was ahead of them would be unpleasant. He glanced at the other Viper, noticing in that instant the way the fading sunlight caught the odd red highlight in his lover’s golden-brown hair. He always noticed. It never stopped being beautiful. 

The two Vipers shared a look and with it understanding. They had done this many times over the years. Silently they moved to flank the clearing ahead, fangs bared and gleaming wetly with poison. Careful, controlled, and deliberately irregular steps brought them each to their own side of the space between trees, and directly to a nightmarish scene. A small band of the soldiers still scouring the mountains had captured another Viper, and were clearly intent on enjoying their orders to kill him. 

It took Zeren a slow, horrified moment to realize that there were three bodies tied in that bloody heap. Two of them were very small. He could feel the rage seething just outside the trained, cold calm that held him when he fought. Zeren shoved it away. Barely. They were only boys. 

Movement ahead of him made Zeren freeze mid step. A sentry, more intent on the brutal spectacle before him than on anything in the woods behind him. Slipping up behind the soldier and opening his throat before he could scream seemed child’s play to the Witcher. Another further around the clearing soon met a similar fate. Zeren forced himself to ignore the jeers of the soldiers and the exhausted screams of their victims while he and Desten brought the odds more into their favor, one incompetent sentry at a time. 

Stained with blood, golden eyes blazing with icy fury, the two Vipers turned as one and made their way into the camp. They flowed across the ground like the serpents for which they’d been named, graceful and swift and striking with uncanny precision- and deadly poison. They’d nearly made it to the center of the ghastly show before any of the distracted men noticed. Not one dying soldier had had time to scream. 

There was something primal and satisfying about killing alongside someone whose mind and body he knew so well. They exchanged no words, they knew where the other would be. With surprise on the side of the Vipers, the soldiers never stood a chance. Zeren slashed, ducked, spun, stabbed, leaped, rolled under a clumsy strike and cut his way free of the tangle only to dive back in again. The ground grew soft, mud of blood and worse that steamed and reeked in the mountain air.  _ Smells like home.  _

Zeren turned sharply to catch a blade aimed at Desten’s shoulder and with his rear hand slammed an already blood-smeared fang into the gap in the soldier’s armor right at his armpit. His scream lost all power as his lung filled with blood. He was out of the fight. Zeren spun to the next. But there were no more. 

Not one soldier remained alive in the camp. 

The two Vipers exchanged a brief look and turned immediately to the bloody captives. A Viper, one golden eye swollen shut and gray showing through the blood in his hair. Zeren didn’t recognize him, but Desten did. 

“Welch?” Desten dropped to his knees next to the other Witcher, dropping both fangs on the ground next to him. “Welch what the fuck, how-?” Welch jerked a hand to stop the questions. Several of his fingers appeared broken. He grit his teeth. When he spoke his voice was harsh and tight with pain. 

“The boys. Beni. Hul. They passed out a while ago. Can you…” He trailed off, breathing hard. 

Zeren turned his attention to the two small bodies covered in rope and blood. Only one was still breathing, and unless he greatly missed his guess, would not be for very long. The fury he’d pushed aside before threatened to break through again. It took a moment before he could speak. “I’ll untie the bodies.” 

Welch let out a long, painful sigh that was half a sob. Desten shifted the old Witcher’s weight against his own shoulder while he cut the ropes binding him. “How bad is it, Welch. Will Swallow be enough?” Desten’s deep voice was surprisingly gentle for a man who’d just slaughtered a dozen soldiers without hesitation. 

“It will. Bag’s over there on the table. Gods know what’s left useful in it at this point.”

Zeren retrieved it. “Not much.” For once, though, luck was on their side. A single precious red vial remained unbroken. Welch downed it, shuddering at the taste. He grimaced as his body began to work through the potion, setting it to work. 

At some point while Zeren had been retrieving Welch’s pack, the other boy had also stopped breathing. He felt the fury in him go cold, bitter as the frozen peaks. Desten looked up at him, a question in his eyes. An almost imperceptible shake of Zeren’s head pushed the query aside for later. Welch watched the interaction. 

“You must be Zeren.”

“Fraid so.”

“Desten’s told me quite a bit about you.” Welch said, testing his limbs. 

“Well I’ll have to disabuse you of his bullshit later, then.” 

At Zeren’s wry reply, Desten huffed out a laugh, drying blood cracking on his face. “Bullshit? You say such nice things.”

“Only because they’re true.”

“You’re my favorite menace, Zeren.” Desten turned to Welch. “Let’s get you out of here, Welch.”

Welch nodded agreement and together, Desten and Zeren half carried the old Viper out of the blood soaked clearing. 

***

_ The same clearing, now four years later.  _

Welch and Zeren stood side by side amid fragments of bone and rusted metal in a clearing neither of them wanted to remember. Onnos and Lath were scouting ahead, Warritt had Mino and Nhelan away from the clearing and the hell that had happened there. Zeren had been unable to pass by without looking that day in the eye. He had not expected Welch to follow. 

“I don’t regret it, you know.” the old Viper finally said into the haunted silence. “I told Auckes and Serrit to run, take the rest with them. They got away. I don’t regret it. I do wish…” He trailed off. 

“The other two had lived?” Zeren offered. 

“Yeah. Hul he, he never had a chance. The bolt that brought him down nicked a lung, I think. But Beni… Fuck I wish he’d gotten clear with the rest.”

“But the rest did make it.”

“As far as I know.” Welch’s voice seemed almost wistful. “Last I saw was Auckes scooping one up who couldn’t quite keep up and disappearing up that rock face. And you and Desten slaughtered that unit to a man. They had the best chance to escape that they could have had.”

“I’d’ve killed them slower if I’d realized what they’d done at the time.” Zeren didn’t bother to keep the snarl out of his voice. He’d gotten a pretty good look at those bodies. The deaths of some of the soldiers had been far too swift. Desten had agreed. 

“I think Desten agreed. Though he always was the more bloodthirsty of the two of you.” There was sorrow in Welch’s smile. “He was my friend. I miss him, too.”

Zeren said nothing. He knew Welch was offering some empathy, some company in grief. He looked across the clearing. He could see as clearly as if he was watching it all happen. Desten slinking through the woods across from him, silencing distracted guards with cold precision. Could see the way he fought, powerful yet elegant, no movement wasted; and the almost feral gleam in his golden eyes as the taste of blood filled the air. Could hear the gentleness in his voice when he spoke to Welch, and the real grief at the deaths of the two boys. 

“You’ve got ghosts in your eyes, Zeren.” Welch’s voice broke into the cascade of memory, quiet though it was. 

“Just the one ghost.” Zeren whispered. His throat was tight, and tension held his body rigid. 

“I’d expect nothing less.” Welch said softly. “What the two of you had was… rare, among our kind. It deserves to be remembered.”

“I’ll-” Zeren tried, but he was just too tired. His voice broke. He pulled his arms tight across his chest, bracing himself. “I’ll never be able to visit his grave.” Zeren shivered, grief roaring through him like a desert sandstorm as something inside screamed at letting so much out. But Welch let the emotion pass by. 

“No. But he’s well remembered by all of us. It’s not the same, but it’s hardly nothing. I am an old Witcher, Zeren, but I have no more advice for you than this. Losing the people you care about never gets any easier. Desten told me once that you’ve got a poetic streak hiding under all that so bear with me.” 

Zeren snorted, but did not interrupt. 

“They say we’re stripped of emotion but that’s never been how our trials worked. And gods know old Evil-Eye let the instructors do their damndest to beat the emotions out of us. But that never really worked either. He loved you, Zeren. And I know that you loved him and anyone who saw the two of you together knew it. And grief… when love doesn’t think it has anywhere left to go, it becomes grief. There’s no point hiding it. We’ve all seen you pretty low. Hell, Mino helped me stitch your damn guts back in after that fucking sand monster got hold of you. I know you’re tryin’ to hold it all in just… you don’t always have to. Alright?”

Zeren’s thoughts had tied themselves into a handy knot but a few things were working their way back to the surface.  _ When love doesn’t think it has anywhere to go, it becomes grief.  _ He’d never thought about it that way before. Didn’t really help much with how torn and raw he felt, but maybe it would help eventually. When he spoke it was a ragged whisper, with none of his usual smooth control. “I’ll… try to remember that.”

Welch seemed to accept this. He looked around the clearing once more. The old Viper sighed, exhaustion in the sound, and turned to go. 

“Welch.”

“Yeah, Zeren?”

“Thank you.”

Welch said nothing, but a real smile crinkled the corners of his eyes as he turned to make his way back to Warritt and the boys. After a while, Zeren looked around the clearing again. The ghosts were gone, but he could still feel them moving in his mind. He could hear Warritt and Welch speaking, though they were too far away even for him to make out the words. 

He heard Mino chuckle at something. 

No. It wasn’t the same. But it wasn’t nothing, either. 

Casting one long look back, Zeren left to rejoin the others. 

It wasn’t long after that Onnos and Lath returned, Onnos’ lean face twisted into a frustrated snarl. 

“The path is gone, above that rock face.” the dark haired Viper said by way of greeting. “We’re going to have to backtrack around half the fucking mountain.”

“The same face Auckes and Serrit took the kids up.” Welch said. “I wonder if they knocked the path out behind them.”

“They might’ve”

“Still.” Warritt spoke, calm in the face of Onnos’ frustration. “It’s not as though we’re on any kind of a schedule.”

“No, but the northern approach is dangerous, even for us.”

Zeren did not miss Mino’s wince at the implications. “But if the southern access is completely impassable, we don’t have much choice.” He paused. “There’s still plenty of daylight. May as well put a few more hours of it behind us.”

No one argued. Zeren couldn’t blame them. He knew he was not the only one who wanted to be away from that clearing. 

They ranged out through the sparse forest, Zeren and Mino leading this time. He caught the boy’s attention, signaled Onnos, and they moved up further away, scouting a trail. They were really looking for a good spot for the night, or a chance at game. 

Tough grasses had replaced desert plants some time ago, and true trees now filled their view. The scent of a mountain stream still seemed strange after years in the arid Korath. Zeren was hoping to scare up a turkey. He hadn’t had turkey in a long time. He would never have expected what they did find. 

Mino was an excellent tracker by any standard so when he stopped and signalled to Zeren, the Viper went. He was also confused. Something had passed through here, but the pattern of disturbance, and the size of the disturbance, didn’t make sense. Zeren crept forward warily, blades already to hand. Mino followed suit, dark eyes calculating in his tanned face. 

They parted to flank a grassy outcrop, working toward the disturbed path that seemed to go right up and over it. Cautiously, Zeren cleared the outcropping, and almost immediately relaxed. He took in the child sized figure that had turned to look at him down its long, pointed nose. He cocked his head, long, equally pointed ears jutting from beneath a soft cap. His expression was alert and his smile friendly, despite the pointed teeth. 

A gnome. 

“As I live and breathe.” The gnome said, wonder in his voice. “A Witcher, a Viper no less. We thought you’d all gone away.” 


	11. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What lurks in the dark depends on how you view the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone confused by why I keep describing Zeren as a manipulative SOB, I hope you're ready for a look behind the curtain. 
> 
> Thus far, everything that has occurred is technically canon compliant. We don't know much about the Gnomes, so I have extrapolated heavily. We are still technically canon compliant and that will remain the case until about half way through the second of the three planned arcs for Zeren's story. We're very near the end of the first, here. Hang on, and enjoy the ride. I know I have been.

_ A mountainside forest in the Tir Tochair, near Gorthur Gvaed _

Of course Warritt remembered him. 

The gnome- whose name he informed them was Silas- had all but invited himself back to meet the rest of the nest, needing only the smallest opening from Zeren. He was nearly bouncing with each step, so apparently overwhelmed at meeting the returning Vipers. Silas filled the space between each breath with more news than Zeren had hoped in his wildest dreams to find so soon. Zeren watched Mino’s eyes grow a little wider with each revelation of how the last few years had treated their home and their people. Zeren held his own face carefully neutral but he could feel the grim calculations beginning. 

Nazair had fallen while they had been hiding for survival in the Korath. An entire nation consumed by a hungry throne, no longer content with the borders held in relative peace by Fergus var Emreis. The Usurper had claimed another country and throne and if the gnome’s interpretation of shifting trade alliances was correct, was eyeing Maecht. “Seems only sensible, I suppose.” Silas rambled “It’s all surrounded now, all that wonderful open land right in the middle of everything else that pays in Nilfgaardian coin now.” Zeren shuddered. 

What was the point?

But Silas just kept talking. Human warfare meant little to him beyond its impact on trade. The eternal struggle with the Kobolds, however, was a subject that the gnome could clearly spend a significant amount of time discussing. 

He was crowing about how the Kobolds, who lived even deeper in the tunnels and natural caverns than the gnomes, hadn’t been much trouble lately when the rest of the nest appeared to fade into view from the surrounding mountain forest. Warritt strode directly into their path. 

“Silas?” the old Witcher called, “Is that really you?” Warritt stopped, hands resting lightly on his hips, relaxed and in a posture Zeren recognized as about to shock the living hell out of some poor soul. “Last time I saw you you were a tiny wee thing racing around and shrieking about how many Kobolds you were going to kill when you were grown.”

Silas froze. His good natured grin faltered, face paling. He looked stunned. And more than a little bit horrified.  _ And perhaps a touch ill.  _ Zeren thought. “W- Warritt?” There was no laughter left in his voice. “Warrit… what- what happened?”

“Ah yes. The last time I saw you, I could still see you.” There was an edge to Warritt’s usually calm voice; a hardness to the laugh that followed. The desert had not been kind. “Never fear, Silas. You are forever etched into my memory as that adorable child. There are worse fates.”

Silas looked aghast. Next to him, Zeren could see Mino calculating; taking each new piece of information and filing it in order for later perusal. He held back a small smile. The youth was learning. 

“Warritt,” Zeren broke in a touch too jovially, “our friend Silas has been telling me the most fascinating things about the state of the world. I think perhaps we should hear him out.”

“An excellent plan. Seems a fair time to find and set a camp for the night anyway. Never was a good idea for anyone to be wandering around alone on the mountainside after dark.” 

If Silas could have gone any paler he might have. As it was he only stammered agreement and promised to tell the Witchers every single thing he could think of if he could only stay safely by their fire for the night. Most gnomes were clever, canny, and not likely to be easily intimidated no matter how imposing the Witcher. But Zeren had read Silas correctly. He was overawed, uneasy, and eager to please. Warritt’s comment about remembering Silas as a child had confirmed it, letting Zeren know in an instant how easy this particular gnome would be to convince. 

They had found their way back. 

Zeren questioned Mino about it later, when camp, a small fire, and dinner had all been taken care of, Onnos only too eager to range out into the forest for game. Nhelan and Lath were practicing under Welch’s careful eye while Warritt held Silas in conversation. Zeren had taken Mino for a more focused kind of practice. 

Barehanded against blunted training blades, Zeren was slowly pushing Mino down the slope he had surrendered too early. “Weight  _ down  _ Mino, you’re already little get  _ under  _ my range.” The youth shifted to comply, Zeren crowding him back another step. He was forcing Mino to translate the footwork he’d learned in the desert to the mountain terrain. He was doing well, but Zeren was not prepared to praise him for it just yet. Zeren deflected an undercut and swiped for the blade in Mino’s rear hand. The youth kept out of the Viper’s range. Barely. But it cost him another step downslope. 

“Gonna walk all the way back down? We just got here. What ingredients are required for beast oil.”

“Bear fat and wolf liver.” Mino answered immediately, balancing low as Zeren had told him. 

“Enhance it.” Zeren lunged, reaching for Mino’s forward hand, held just a hair too far out. The youth dodged and danced to the side.

“A measure each beast oil, bear hide, celandine, puffball, and bison grass into five additional parts bear fat.” Mino rattled off the formula as he dodged, seeking any path around Zeren’s bulk blocking his way back up the slope. He found it on a tangle of roots. Zeren had no choice but to shift his own larger frame back to balance on the slope, but Mino had significantly less of a restriction. The lightly-built youth waited for Zeren to take his next step and in that moment fairly danced across the roots, past Zeren’s elbow and to the slope just behind the Viper. 

Zeren grinned. The boy was good. 

Zeren dropped to the ground, set his feet against the same gnarled roots, and leaped. His landing was awkward, more a scramble than anything that could have been called graceful, but he managed to come down just in front of the youth. Mino glared, eyes bright under shaggy dark hair. 

“You’re no Witcher, boy. But you’re better than most.” A casual sweeping grab for Mino’s forward blade again pushed the youth back onto the defensive. Zeren wasn’t done with the real lesson yet. “When did you realize how easy it would be to use Silas to find a way around the rockfall?”

There was only the briefest moment of hesitation. “His posture within the first few seconds of realizing what you were became submissive. Eyes, line of shoulder, even voice; but his head tipped back and he didn’t guard his abdomen. It wasn’t just fear. It was...eagerness?”

“Correct, and well spotted.” Zeren rose from his fighting stance. He stepped away, giving Mino room to do the same. “Most gnomes are not easy targets. They’re canny and confident. Silas may be those things in his own arena.”

“But not where the Vipers are concerned.”

“Correct.” 

“If there’s a way for him to help us reach the keep again, he’ll hand it right over. He wants to be helpful.”

“Almost. He wants to please. Similar result, different mode of use.” Wanting to help was easier to scare off. Wanting to please could drive a thinking being to shocking lengths to win that sought-after approval. Zeren explained the subtle but important difference as they made their way back to the rest of the camp. 

It was a shame, really.  _ Boy would have made one hell of a Viper.  _

“Now, before we’re all the way back. Why did we leave Silas with Warritt?”

Mino thought the question over for a moment. “He feels a sense of connection to Warritt, which will bring that desire to please out even further. Warritt has a better head for economics, and there’s nothing that illustrates what politics have wrought as well as trade.”

Zeren let the smile break across his face. “Nicely put. Yes. Gnomes are craftsmen at heart, and tradesmen of great skill. He’ll tell Warritt all about where the human dangers lie without even realizing what he’s doing.”

“I heard the Grandmaster use that explanation. It stuck. Only time I ever actually saw him, I think.” 

Zeren cocked his head at the youth. “Master Evil-Eye? Aye that sounds like an observation he’d make.”

Mino stopped. He seemed to be turning a question over. Zeren waited, and eventually it worked its way out. “Do you think he’s still alive?”

“You do like hard questions, don’t you.” Zeren paused. He wanted to be sure he said this right. “No matter what you hear, or if you never see or hear from him again for the rest of your life, unless you see his body with your own eyes, remain open to the possibility that he has cheated death yet again.” 

Mino nodded, and immediately brushed dark hair from his face. Zeren laughed. “Remind me later to trim that for you, if you want. But first food. I have been  _ waiting  _ for turkey.” 

The camp itself was close and clean, nothing extra at all and everything that could be packed for immediate departure should events require it. The boys had apparently finished their session and had, as boys so often did, turned from busy to eating with the same enthusiasm. Zeren wondered briefly if there would be enough. Nhelan and Lath had clearly worked up an appetite. 

_ And Onnos and Welch had clearly worked up some irritation.  _ The two Vipers were sparring in a clear space. They held nothing back, none of them did. Onnos flowed across the slope, low and swift, Welch steady and patient waiting for the perfect strike. Training fangs slashed, firelight gleaming dully on the blunted blades. Silas watched, spellbound. Zeren shoved Mino gently but firmly toward the other two boys and the cooked bird before settling down next to Warritt. 

“Boy’s learning.”  _ What have you learned, you canny old bastard. _

“Good. He’ll need it.”  _ The world is just as shitty as when we left.  _

It wasn’t a code, not really. It was long experience and training with the same teachers. It was understanding conversing on multiple levels with both spoken and unspoken language. It was watching everything at once. It was growing up in Gorthur Gvaed. Zeren nodded. That was more or less what he had expected. Warritt continued. 

“Our friend has agreed to take us into his people’s tunnels tomorrow. He believes he can make the case for taking us through the mountain, rather than around it. It will save us days.”

“I like the sound of that. What’s the problem?”

“He’ll have to convince the council. Apparently this could be quite a challenge.”  _ It won’t be, he just wants to look good when they agree. _

Zeren made a noncommittal noise and nodded. “Tunnels it is.”

Warritt had the grace to grimace. 

***

Zeren knew the other Witchers could scent his distress, though he was doing everything in his power to hide it from the rest of the party. It had been harder than he had anticipated to walk into the entrance to the gnomes’ tunnel system. Mino had cringed visibly and Zeren, knowing all too well what the boy was fighting, had reached out a hand to rest on his shoulder. He was not entirely sure what had been in his expression at that moment, but Mino’s wide, frightened eyes had locked on his and the youth had found the strength to walk into the dark at Zeren’s side. 

He could smell the boy’s fear, laced through the air with his own. Zeren knew he was tense, twitching at every oddly echoed sound. The pale glow of Warritt’s modified  _ supirre  _ cast an eerie light on the whole place. The gnomes’ tunnels were smooth walled, clear, clean, and carried little of the heavy smells of wet, stagnant air that plagued the bolt holes beneath Gorthur Gvaed. But the space was too tight, the tunnel mouth was out of sight, and Zeren was all too aware of the weight of the earth and rock over his head. His heart was racing- for a Witcher- and Onnos kept looking over at him, a strange expression on his face. It almost looked like concern. 

Fortunately, Silas noticed none of this. 

The gnome chattered happily as he made his way down the tunnel, clearly more at home here than he had been above ground. As promised, they met a small contingent of guards just as soon as the tunnel entrance was out of sight. The gnome guards took one look at the Witchers and began to smile with all their pointed teeth. 

“Silas!” the nearest one cried, “You found  _ Witchers?”  _ He sounded both impressed and somewhat relieved and Zeren could guess what was coming. 

“ _ Viper  _ Witchers, Captain.” Silas practically glowing with pride “They’d like to see the council.”

“And the council would like to see them, I’m sure.” The Captain replied. “I’ll send the message.” He waved Silas along, watching with wide eyes as the ragged nest followed. 

The council’s chamber was deep, the walk providing plenty of time for Zeren’s nerves to rattle around inside his skull and wreak havoc on the tension in his body. Lath finally put forward a careful question, phrased as an idle comment. 

“I didn’t realize the Vipers were so well known to the gnomes.”

“Of course” Warritt answered. “Why else do you think our blades are so coveted? We learned it from them.” 

“It was a fair exchange.” Silas offered. “We dug too deep. Found things we’d never seen in this world before. You helped us, when even the others would not.”

“We do favor function over most other concerns.” Welch said softly. It was a line he had used before, many times. It remained true. “Old Evil-Eye never did give much of a damn about who the Hunt took, only that they’d been taken. I guess that rubbed off on the rest of us.”

“And we’re glad it did.” Silas smiled up at them. They reached an ornately carved door, clever geometric designs worked into the stone. Faint light danced along the edges. “They’re ready.” 

Zeren looked over the other Vipers, understanding passed between them. He nodded to Silas. The worked stone slid soundlessly to the side and they followed their guide into the chamber. 

The smooth walled, oval chamber was lit from above by lights that Zeren’s medallion suggested were magical in nature. A ring of curved benches, all with more of the intricate geometric carving along their edges, sat around the perimeter of the room. A dozen gnomes sat on the benches. A dozen pairs of eyes looked at them, bright with relief. 

“Welcome, Witchers.” The gnome in the center of the arc said. He did not appear to be dressed any more grandly than the others, or even than Silas or the Captain had been, but he carried himself with confidence and calm. A council it may have been, but that this gnome led, Zeren was certain. “I am Bartholomew, current Speaker of the Council of the Tir Tochair. And I am very, very glad to see you.” 

“That the gnomes of the Tir Tochair are still alive and well is a relief to me, Speaker.” Zeren answered him, voice smooth and controlled despite the lingering anxiety of being so deep underground. “I am Zeren, of the School of the Viper.” Zeren cocked his head slightly and decided to match the Speaker’s directness with his own. “I hope you’ll forgive me for saying so, Speaker, but it seems our timing is particularly important. Is there trouble?”

“Yes, Master Witcher, there is.” The arc of gnomes visibly tensed. “But you could not have known this when you arrived.”

“We did not.” Zeren said. He recognized the question and, in the interest of fomenting goodwill, provided the answer. “We came seeking a way to return to our keep. The paths from this side have been destroyed and will take time to rebuild.”

Bartholomew looked solemn. The entire Council did. “We remember that night with sorrow, Master Witcher. We sheltered many, taking them by secret ways to other mountains. I rather liked Serrit. Vicious sense of humor on that one.” Bartholomew chuckled and Zeren heard Welch’s breath catch. Maybe they had made it after all. 

“I’m rather fond of Serrit, too.” Zeren smiled. It was true. Serrit and Auckes were a right pair, and absolute devils in a fight. He fought down the sharp pang of emotion.  _ I miss them.  _ “And grateful that you would shelter them.”

“Say nothing of it, Master Witcher.” The Speaker said gently “We owe more to you than we can repay.”

“We only did our job, Speaker. Most simply blame us for existing, but the Gnomes of Tir Tochair have been our neighbors and our friends.” Zeren looked around the keen, watching faces. “We had come to ask for your help.” 

“Witchers, we will help you whether you are able to help us in return or not.” The Gnomes around Bartholomew nodded agreement. “The breaking of our world is not on your hands. You were made at great cost to defend all rational beings from the beasts the breaking bore. And then your own kind turned against you. No, we have never seen Witchers as our enemies, especially not the Witchers of Gorthur Gvaed, the Keep of the Rising Serpent. Ivar had his eye on a greater enemy, and we have never forgotten that. We will help you home.”

Zeren let out a small sigh of relief. He’d not expected any trouble getting them to agree, relations with the Gnomes had long been friendly, but it was still good to have confirmation. “Thank you, Speaker.” He said sincerely. He felt Warritt shift beside him, moving into the light. Zeren shifted to the side, visibly ceding the floor. Warritt’s greater knowledge would be useful for this next part. 

“W- Warritt?” Bartholomew’s voice and expression fell. Shock and horror played across his features. “What? How?”

Warritt smiled harshly. “Pay it no mind, Bartholomew, and yes I remember you too. Been a few decades.” The scarred Viper gestured vaguely to the faint glow of  _ supirre _ hanging in the air before him. “I modified one of our signs. I see in roughly the same way the shaelmaar do, now.”

Bartholomew let out a breathy laugh of disbelief. “Funny… funny you should mention them.”


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who ordered the violence with a side of monster?

_ Caverns of the Gnomes of the Tir Tochair, near Gorthur Gvaed _

Zeren could feel his usually iron self control cracking. He was pacing the small cavern- actually pacing like a damned trainee- trying to work through the mess they’d found themselves facing. The rest seemed as concerned by his pacing as he himself was, but none were quite brave enough to try and interfere. 

“I meant what I told the Speaker, Warritt, I want to help them if we can. They’ve been our friends and trading partners for a long time.”

“I know, Zeren, I know. And I think they do believe you. But  _ shaelmaar  _ Zeren.” 

The others cringed- some visibly- at Warritt’s words. 

“We could try for the keep first. See if there are enough ingredients left in the old labs to put a batch of relict oil together.”

“The gnomes may not live that long.” Welch broke in. There was nervous tension in every line of his body. “They thought they were winning their war, Kobolds no longer coming up to pick fights.”

“But now the shaelmaar is out of kobolds to eat and it’s after gnomes.” Zeren finished. “I heard them. I know we’re racing time here.” He resumed pacing. 

“They’ll fall to an uncoated blade eventually.” Onnos offered, though he didn’t sound at all pleased at the prospect. “It’ll take a lot of bleeding to do it though.” 

“And a lot of injuries before then if we’re not very, very careful.” 

“Timing is one of the things we do best, Zeren.” Welch reminded him. “And we have a lot of blades available.” 

“That’s the part that worries me.” Zeren said softly, finally coming to a stop. He turned to look at the three youths, armed and armored and better trained to violence than any boys their ages ought to be.  _ Better trained to violence than most adults, come to think of it. _ “In the desert or in the forest or the swamps or whatever you can get away, more often than not, if you find yourself outmatched. There’s nowhere to go, down here.” Zeren tried and failed to keep the strain out of his voice. Nowhere to go. 

Tunnels. Gods but he hated tunnels. 

The rising panic must have shown. To his surprise, it was Mino who spoke next. The wiry youth actually squared to face him, and when he spoke there was no hesitation in his voice. “Zeren, I walked into Gorthur Gvaed with eyes as open as a young child’s can be. I know I’m still a child by most measures, but I made my choice. I’m the youngest son of a youngest son- my options were death in the army for a war I don’t understand or death among the Witchers, one way or another. Our friends have a problem. If I can fight, I will.”

Zeren was stunned. The silence in the cavern seemed to grow, mocking his reluctance to face this beast. None of the others said a word. 

_ Calculation complete.  _

“Then we’ll fight.” Sound returned, and with it a sense of time as Zeren continued, turning to the others to hide the odd snarl of emotion in his chest. “We’ll be going in with bare blades and we’re going to need every advantage and trick we can think of.” From Zeren, the change in energy spread to every other Viper in the cavern. Where there had been anxious indecision, now they resembled nothing so much as hounds ready to slip their leashes. Zeren finally put a name to the emotion. It was pride. He was proud of Mino, of all of them, and a little bit ashamed of himself. 

No matter. He’d felt worse. 

“They’re not susceptible to much.” Warritt supplied. “You can’t blind them, you can’t sneak up on them, and the only place you can make them bleed is their underbelly.”

“ _ Aard  _ does work to stun them, though.” Onnos said. “It overwhelms their senses, but not for very long. How did that Cat do it?”

“Waited for it to charge and then threw a bomb at its belly.”

“How very Cat of him.” Warritt responded drily. “Well we don’t have any bombs but we’ve got enough people to make a mess of the beast I think.” 

Zeren looked around. “Yes. I think we do at that. Silas, let the Council know.”

The gnome, who had been watching the exchange with a mix of fear and fascination, spun to obey.

***

The beast clearly was not in the habit of leaving much behind. The lower caverns in which the Vipers found themselves, though colder, were clear of bodies if not debris. They’d allowed themselves to make noise on the way down. They had to lure the beast with something, and nothing worked as well as the promise of food. 

Zeren brought them all to a halt just in sight of a ragged hole in the floor of the tunnel. The gnomes leading them set their glowing lamps along the edges of the cavern and fled for their lives. The Vipers settled in to wait. They knew it wouldn’t take long. 

After a while Warritt leaned forward, soft glow of  _ supirre  _ casting his scarred features in ghastly shadow. “It’s coming. Only one, thank the gods.”

Grim nods around the cavern. Fangs drawn, gleaming wetly in the light of the gnomes’ odd lamps. Welch wasn’t sure if the beast would be susceptible to the venom of the giant scorpion, but it was better than nothing at all. They had a plan, but it was only a rough one, knowing full well that no beast yet had ever followed a Witcher’s plan all the way through. 

Zeren felt the odd dragging rumble before the beast appeared. Massive digging claws on heavily armored forelegs gripped the edge of the ragged hole and dragged a small rockslide up into the tunnel. That living rockslide was a shaelmaar. The creature could shrug off almost any attack. They’d have only a narrow chance to sink a blade into the creature, and they’d have to bait it along to manage that. Zeren shifted his grip on his own poisoned fangs and felt the icy calm of battle descend on his mind. Every other school fought hot- and it did grant them some advantages. But he and the other Vipers fought cold. It gave them… different advantages. 

_ Overwhelm your opponent from the start if you possibly can. An enemy off balance is an enemy already defeated. _

Warritt’s Signs were the strongest, Onnos’ a close second. The two of them waited just long enough for the shaelmaar to be away from its obvious escape route before blasting the beast with  _ aard.  _ Stunned and enraged, the creature threw itself backward, coiling up protectively and lashing blindly with its tail. In the confusion, each Viper moved to reach a better striking position. The shaelmaar did not appear to notice the movement. It had worked. 

On cue, Lath hurled a stone at the far end of the cavern. Predictably, the shaelmaar charged. An entire small rockslide threw itself across the cavern with a roar, slamming into the wall and rattling the entire mountainside. Zeren held his breath, waiting. The timing had to be perfect. 

There. On impact, the shaelmaar unrolled. For a brief moment, the rockslide had a soft, vulnerable belly within the Vipers’ reach. Zeren and Onnos lunged, each to the side closest to them, fangs aimed at the only part of the creature they had a chance of wounding. In a single human heartbeat, Zeren landed on the creature’s armored side and sank both venom coated fangs deep, raking them up the soft flesh before leaping desperately clear. He barely missed the flailing tail before diving behind an outcrop of rock. 

He heard Onnos land on the other side of the cavern.

The shaelmaar screamed. It kept screaming. It picked itself up, curling tightly around the bleeding wounds. It thrashed, lashing blindly around with its armored tail. Nhelan and Mino rose from their more sheltered positions and threw a series of stones down at the ground a short distance in front of the creature. Blind, it could only follow the sound. 

Throwing itself into a rolling ball again, the beast raced across the cavern floor toward what had sounded like a scrambling humanoid. It struck the far wall and, for a brief moment, unrolled. Welch was ready and waiting and Warritt, relying more on his  _ supirre  _ than Zeren thought he himself would have had the courage to do, landed perfectly, fangs first, in the creature’s belly. They left two additional sets of open, bleeding wounds on the soft flesh before leaping clear. 

The shaelmaar screamed. Zeren winced. The creature scrambled over onto its belly and slammed its arms against the ground. The force of the impact sent razor sharp shards of stone flying through the air to shatter against the walls. Zeren heard a muffled thump, a choked gasp. He forced himself not to lose his focus. One injury would become more the longer this went on. He had to focus. 

Nhelan rose from his place behind a ripple in the rock and hurled a stone again. The shaelmaar screamed, half in rage and half in pain. It tucked itself into a rolling rockslide again, though noticeably slower this time. Once again it pitched itself across the cavern, slamming into the wall where it had expected to find a softer target and unrolling, stunned. Zeren dropped on it, fangs first, tearing through the soft flesh. He noticed in the odd, detached way one did during the adrenaline fueled high of combat, that the edges of the previous wounds were red and inflamed. The giant scorpion venom seemed to be having some effect on the beast. 

The shaelmaar scrambled, a staggering scree trying to get to its feet. It tried to leap and fell. Zeren took his chance. Under the flailing tail, between the scrabbling digging claws, Zeren sunk both fangs into the beast’s chest. He felt the convulsion, the desperate wheeze. 

There was no way he was going to get out of the way in time. 

The incoming heavy digging claw was the last thing Zeren saw before the wall rushed up to meet him, right in the face. 

***

The first thing Zeren was aware of was the ragged ceiling of blood spattered rock above him. The second was pain. Everything hurt. Deep set fire twisted around his side and his shoulder was shrieking obscenities of agony.  _ Broken ribs, dislocated shoulder, concussion maybe. _

It could have been a lot worse. 

There was someone kneeling next to him. Strong, scarred hands held him still. Welch. “Easy, Zeren, hold still. You got thrown. Just breathe.”

“Hurts to do that.” he whispered. Zeren fucking hated rib injuries. There was no way to get away from the pain. It followed every movement. Some things made it worse and nothing at all made it better. 

“I know, I know.” Welch shifted so Zeren could rest against his legs. “We put your ribs back while you were out. Still need to get your shoulder though. Gonna hurt like hell.”

Zeren nodded. He knew. He grit his teeth when Welch gripped his arm, trying to relax against the pain so the other Viper could manipulate the joint back into place. Every instinct screamed out against relaxing into that kind of pain, but training won out. Barely. Welch rotated his arm around, braced, and pushed. Zeren promptly blacked out again. 

When he came to again they were no longer in the cavern with the shaelmaar. A pallet had been made up on the floor and he’d been pretty well wrapped up on it, surprisingly warm in the cool darkness of the caverns. His shoulder ached and his ribs hurt like blazes but nothing was shifting that should not be, so Zeren knew that he’d been out for some time. He cast his senses around the room. 

He was not alone. 

The pace of the heartbeat on the other side of the cavern was human, asleep if the breathing was any indication. He could smell blood. Zeren craned his head around. Dark hair. A wiry frame just starting to broaden out. Mino. Mino was hurt. 

The Viper clawed his way upright, ignoring the pain in his side. He had to know how badly the boy was hurt. In the dim light of the gnome’s lamps Zeren could make out a swath of bandages on Mino’s left shoulder. He was pale. He’d lost a lot of blood, but his breathing was regular and his heartbeat steady. 

Zeren let himself fall back on the pallet, wincing at the pain in his side. Barring infection- unlikely in the Witchers’ care- the boy would live. He’d made his choice. He’d made it with open eyes. Looking at the pale face and bloody bandage, Zeren wondered if he would come to regret that choice. How long he lay in the dark with his thoughts, he was not sure. After a time, someone else came in. 

Warritt and the Council Speaker himself came in to check on them. Bartholomew was almost beside himself. 

“- would never have even considered asking if we’d realized the younger ones were still unchanged. The terrible risk. Please forgive our presumption.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Bartholomew. Mino understood the risk he was taking. We respect his skill enough to let him make that choice. Ah, Zeren, you’re awake.”

“Wish I wasn’t.” he muttered. “We actually kill the thing?”

“You did. It might have shaken off the other wounds, it might not have. It definitely didn’t like the giant scorpion venom but I don’t know for sure if it would have killed the creature. Fangs to the lungs definitely did.”

“So it bounced me off a wall as revenge. Got it. How’d Mino get hurt?”

“Rock shard. That damned chaos-fueled seismic wave that it throws out flung a bunch of rock shards. One caught Mino. He’ll be fine. Nothing vital. You’ll both be up and about in a day or two.”

Zeren grunted acknowledgement, too tired to string many more words together. His mutated body was doing a spectacular job of healing his injuries but the cost was his energy. Mino did not have that advantage but from what Warritt was saying his injury wasn’t severe. 

“Please rest, Master Witcher.” Bartholomew said plaintively. “Anything and everything we can offer you while you recover is yours. We owe you a great debt.”

“I’ll leave that negotiation to Warritt.” Zeren ground out. Exhaustion was creeping its gray fingers around the edges of his vision again. 

“With pleasure.” Warritt’s grin was horrific, and if Zeren had had the energy he’d have laughed at just how much the gnomes were about to lose to Warritt’s negotiation. Fortunately, Warritt could see just how worn down he was. “Sleep, Zeren. One of us is right outside all the time. You got us this far. Rest. We’re going to need you.”

Zeren wanted to argue that. Wanted to tell him that they’d done it themselves, tell him a lot of things. But he couldn’t. He just let out a long, exhausted exhale, laid back on the pallet, and let the darkness rise up to take him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been asked to warn readers that the next several chapters will be dark, emotional, and intense.


End file.
